


Anima Shartan

by July



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, F/M, Game of Thrones-esque, Hawke is a dragon, Original Character(s), Tevinter, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:05:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 79,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/July/pseuds/July
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>News of Danarius' death at the hands of his former slave has reached Tevinter, and an uprising has begun in Fenris's name, many comparing him to Shartan, the one who travelled alongside Andraste and her army. Hawke has gained the ability to turn into a dragon, and together they vow to lead the rebellion and burn down the Imperium.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wilds

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat of a Song of Ice and Fire crossover, but it's not enough to actually call it a crossover. It follows the story of Daenarys Targaryan freeing the slaves in Astapor and Meeren. Other than that, there are no crossover elements, it is still the same Dragon Age characters in the same Dragon Age universe.
> 
> I can't claim full credit for this idea, as it was probably a lot of people's on Tumblr. I don't know who said it first, because I mean, we all want this to happen, right?
> 
> (If the rating changes, it will be because the violence has gotten more graphic, not smut.) Edit: I am a filthy liar.
> 
> This operates on the idea that the Conclave happened in 9:38, one year after the end of Dragon Age II, rather than in 9:41. Inquisition was said to have happened a year after the events of DA:II, but the math shows that's more like four years. I'm probably missing a piece of the puzzle, but there's plenty of canon-bending going on here anyway, so, just thought I'd let you know if there's any confusion.

The fire was out, bedrolls rolled up as small as they would go as they set off into the wilds illuminated by the lavender light of dawn. It seemed the further north they went, the longer the days had become. Sleep still tugged at his eyes as Fenris could swear he wasn't sleeping as much as he used to. Not since nearly a year ago, and they had been running ever since. It was wasn't something he ever wanted to do, and, frankly, he still didn't want to do.

The wilds in the north of the Free Marches that bled into Antiva were at least beautiful for what they were. With the warmer weather, the plant life grew more lush and exotic, however subtly at their slow rate of travel. The forest was greener, the air warmer and occasionally sticky with humidity. Hawke would complain about it day and night being Ferelden, but to Fenris, it was a welcome change from spending so many years in the freezing wasteland of Southern Thedas. The Free Marches weren't even the worst of it. He couldn't imagine what Ferelden must have been like.

In truth, he could have been more content with their location had their wandering away from the city not been so aimless. Over time, their path had snaked its way through nonsensical loops of forest path, only leading them in the general direction toward Antiva. There was little else they could have done, although the utter pointlessness of it all was obviously what had driven their friends away from them. Varric eventually figured it was safe to return to Kirkwall a couple of months after they had fled, and Merrill followed him, saying the elves in the alienage needed her. Isabela left soon afterwards, committed to finally getting that ship she had wanted for so long one way or another. Then there was the abomination Anders. Hawke had barely spared him after the horror of the Chantry in Kirkwall. If it weren't for her constant regret over the decision, Fenris would still be berating her about it now. But that was a topic dropped long ago, when he saw the hurt in her eyes even mentioning his name.

 _"Should have put him out of his misery. He would have gone mad. He_ was _mad. But he could do so much good alive…"_

Neither of them had any idea where he was.

So it was just the two of them now, wandering without much of a purpose, and it was difficult to make a purpose for themselves. The actions of Hawke had resounded across Thedas, immediately sparking a mage and Templar war after what had happened in Kirkwall. As much as Fenris had disagreed with taking the side of the mages falling to corruption and possession, it was clear the war would have been a result no matter what they did. Their involvement mattered so much, and yet not at all, for the current situation was inevitable. That night would stick in his mind forever, the blood mage Orsino's monstrous form not something easily shaken from memory. He still couldn't believe he had actually helped those mages, who, for a moment he was willing to believe they had honestly suffered, only to see the blood being spilt by their leader to create the abomination that made people fear mages in the first place. But he supposed he was willing to believe there were other mages outside of the Imperium that weren't so bad. After all, he was still with Hawke.

He was barely seeing the use of Hawke's magic these days, as for the past few weeks, things had been quiet along their path. There were no roving bands of thugs, even this close to Antiva, no fearsome beasts that could put up a good fight. It was entirely peaceful, and the massive sword strapped to his back was beginning to make it sore. Even their conversations had dried up considerably, not that it made them any distant from each other. In fact, in a lot of ways, their boredom made them closer. As Hawke was often fond of saying while beginning to disrobe, "what else are we gonna do?"

Often he wondered just how they could get themselves out of such a stalemate of activity. He wondered if and when it would be safe to return to Kirkwall, at least there they could have some more of the usual company, short a few people. But Hawke adamantly refused, saying she didn't want to risk every guard and remaining Templar at her throat for being an apostate, one who started a war no doubt. She wouldn't want to put Aveline on the spot for letting her walk free when the rest of the city wanted her and anyone associated with her dead. This was her reason for staying away from all other cities as well. But the complacency was beginning to drive him mad. All they did was wander, eat somewhat decent if gamey meals, drink and make love, which was even  _less_  of what they did on a typical day in Kirkwall. At least there, Fenris could watch a fistfight in a bar, or find some mercenary work to keep his pockets lined.

But no. Still in the woods. He had agreed to walk into whatever the future held for them at her side, but so far, the future wasn't holding much.

Today the forest was illuminated by bright sunlight, surrounding full leaves swallowing them in emerald green. There was a breeze blowing from the South, cooling off some of some of the humidity in the air, to which Hawke was most thankful. They walked together in silence, enjoying the quiet of the woods, watching birds flit above them, chirping their songs. As they were coming up to a bend in the path, there was a rustle in the bushes. Fenris looked straight ahead towards the sound, tips of his ear prickling. Hawke had stopped moving, already in a defensive stance as the rustling grew louder, louder than any small creature would normally make. For a moment there was silence, but then the bushes rustled some more as their branches were pushed apart. A person burst out, stumbling a bit on their feet before their attention was brought to the pair facing him. He was a young Dalish man, likely just old enough to have been a hunter, his dark hair wild and full of twigs, somehow reminding Fenris of Merrill. He stared at them wide-eyed, but made no effort to reach for the bow slung on his back.

"Dragon," he managed to get through a stutter. "Turn back, shem, turn back!" He ran past them with a surprising speed, travelling down the path before disappearing into the thicker parts of the woods.

Hawke was tense beside him, but they exchanged a look. "Dragon?" she asked him, a curious glimmer in her eye. Had they been with friends, he would have just given her a smile and they would have walked on. But there were only two of them. Suddenly he grew anxious.

"Come on, we've taken a High Dragon before!" she nudged.

"Yes, with four of us," he said with a sigh.

Hawke snorted, placing her hands on her hips in an arrogant gesture. "And here you were complaining there was nothing to do in these woods."

He shook his head, already turning around to walk the way they came. "That does not mean I want to get killed."

Hawke grabbed his hand just as he took the first step. "Please? We don't have to  _fight_  it, let's just go see it. Then we can run like hell."

Fenris pursed his lips together and turned to face her. Her blue eyes were big, her brow creasing in the middle. She was practically begging him with that look. A chuckle escaped him. "You want to fight everything. In fact I think the other day you  _vowed_  to fight the midday sun."

She gave him a dark look and let go of his hand. "I did not  _vow_ to fight the sun."

"You tried to shoot an ice spell at the sky-"

"I did  _not,"_  she repeated, but a smile was playing on her lips and a laugh betrayed her conviction. "Stop making things up."

He smiled as he stepped closer to her, studying her face. "Fine, let's go see this dragon."

They cut through the bushes where the Dalish had sprung out of. The brush was thick, sticks and rocks difficult to find their steps. Fenris was just behind Hawke, listening intently to the sounds around them. He wondered just how close the dragon was, as neither of them heard any telltale sound, no roaring, not even the gusts of the beast's wings. As they moved as quietly as they could for nearly half an hour, they still heard no sign of it. It had to have been in a clearing or a cave, or perhaps it had flown away. Still, they had found no place where it could have landed. The canopy in this part of the woods was too thick to see it circling the sky. Fenris was beginning to grow suspicious.

They kept moving, heart rates slowing down considerably as they continued to find nothing that would indicate the dragon's presence. Soon enough, Fenris stopped, turning his head to one side, catching the sound of something. Hawke halted in front of him, turning around looking expectant. Fenris listened for a moment, eyes darting around trying to find the direction of the sound. He could hear, just in the distance, the sound of rushing water, meaning there was a river nearby. If there was a river, it was likely there was a clearing, which could mean a dragon. He was half tempted to shake his head, declaring it hopeless and making them turn back as to avoid the potential dragon, but now he found himself curious. Finally he caught the location of the sound and jerked his head in its direction. He began to lead the way, moving to their left, being even more careful with his steps than before.

Soon enough the sound of water grew louder, loud enough to determine that it was indeed a waterfall. They had not come across that in the woods before. They moved slower and slower as the trees grew thinner and thinner, knowing a clearing was coming up ahead of them. There was a dead silence in there air, like all animals had frozen, even the breeze had grew calm. It seemed their feet were making the only noise, but still Fenris felt no sense of a larger presence. Eventually they could see bright light coming from the trees ahead of them, and as they grew closer, they could see the clearing ahead of them.

But no dragon.

They stepped out into the clearing, sunlight shining down on them once again as they found themselves near a river, water crashing down the rocks as it fell into a pond about fifteen feet down. They weren't alone. Standing along the other edge of the clearing stood a woman, her back turned towards them. As soon as they stood in the grass, she turned towards them, deep red robes fluttering around her and Fenris nearly choked on his breath.

" _Flemeth._ "

He had met the old woman once, and there was no mistaking it was her. Hawke was taking strides toward her, and Fenris was about to stop her but he only found himself walking forwards as well.

"Well, well," the witch said in her husky voice, sending a chill straight down his spine. "So we meet again."

Hawke's lips were parted as she stared, and Fenris wasn't sure what to do. He was itching to draw his weapon, but he knew this woman's power. He could only stand frozen in his spot. The witch was smiling, her yellow eyes shifting between the two, her amusement clear. When she began to step forward, they froze in place.

"So strange finding you two here." Flemeth began to pace in front of them, her gaze ever curious. "I wondered if warning you of danger was enough to make you come barrelling towards it. Seems you can never stay out of it, anyway."

Figures. Fenris knew they should have turned back when the air turned quiet.

The witch's smile turned warm, her eyes softening. "But that is not why I'm here." She turned around, continuing to pace in small circles in front of them. She didn't seem nervous, just contemplative, as if she weren't truly expecting to see them.

"I am afraid there is something I must ask of you again, Hawke," she said, voice growing heavy.

"I thought our debt was paid in full."

"It was." Flemeth looked up, eyes glinting with her smile. "However this is for your own good. Both of you."

Fenris felt a lump forming in his throat, and he suddenly felt the urge to run. He remained at Hawke's side, and she was unfazed.

"Perhaps I should fill you in, considering you've walked these wilds for so long." Flemeth's gaze turned wicked as she stopped moving, crossing her arms to face them directly. "Your name has been spread across this continent, Hawke. It seems this war you've started has had your name carried on the lips of many a mage these days."

He felt Hawke glance at Fenris, and he knew she expected him to give her an angry glare, or worse, a look more condescending. He remained still, not wanting to take his eyes off the witch for a second. He heard her swallow. "I guess that's inevitable."

Flemeth's attention shifted directly to Fenris. "Your name, however, I've been hearing a lot lately."

His throat seemed to close shut. "Me?"

"Yes." She stepped forward, ignoring his defensive stance as she grew closer. "Your name hasn't so much been shouted as war cry, but it has been whispered in the shadows all across the Imperium."

The blood drained from his face. Fenris's eyes grew wide, taking it as a warning. He should have known that slaying Danarius was going to come back to haunt him in some way. He should have known the magisters would be finding him to avenge his old master. Now he very much wanted to run, flee down as far South into Ferelden as he could.

"It is not what you think," Flemeth said, voice deep. "It is not those wanting to hunt you, rather it is other slaves. You've ignited a spark by killing your master. You've made them think it possible they could do the same."

He didn't have words, but he finally took his eyes off of the witch when his head whipped around to face Hawke who met his gaze with eyes full of excitement. He didn't know what to think, but the dread he had just felt was waning. He wasn't quite sure what it all meant.

"Of course, they have not used you exactly by name. Anyone wanting to start an uprising would know that." Flemeth caught Fenris's attention again as she walked towards the both of them again. "They are calling you Anima Shartan."

And like that, Fenris's heart dropped like a stone into his stomach. His hands began to shake, expression blank, as everything the witch said ran through his head, but before he began to think on it too hard, he spat out a question. "How can you know this?"

The witch threw her head back and cackled like Fenris thought only a witch could. "My dear," she began, sounding only a touch patronizing, "you said it yourself the first time we met. I see a great deal."

He wanted to believe her, just as her words began to sink in. He could now see the city of Minrathous, all of its tiny side streets and back allies alive with gossip, his name - or rather the new name given to him - burning on the tongues of slaves. A quick exchange of words between two elves passing each other in the market square, a whisper between cooks and cleaners. There were no wild tales of heroism, just quick sentences telling the cold truth.  _A slave escaped and killed his master._  The very idea was a tiny spark of hope amongst the more disenfranchised of the slaves, and it only took that one tiny spark to catch a fire. His stomach churned.

"And what do you need of me?" Hawke asked, returning to the beginning.

"It depends on what you decide to do with this information I have given you."

She was silent after that, only staring at them for a response. Fenris opened his mouth and then turned to Hawke whose eyes could not get any wider. "What… might that be?" she asked, still looking at Fenris.

"At this rate, the magisters will catch on to what the slaves are speaking of," Flemeth continued. "Do not doubt that they have heard of you killing their poor dear friend Danarius."

Fenris nodded. "In Tevinter, whenever there is unrest, the magisters use sedition. Wipe their memories, make them compliant again." There was a pain in his voice, recalling the pain he had felt during the ritual to put the lyrium in his body. He had eventually learned that his memory being erased was fairly normal business for the magisters.

It was becoming clear what Flemeth was asking of them. Why she of all people wanted them to do this, he had no idea.

"I'll cut to the chase, then," the witch said. "Lead them. They all know who you are, they will all recognize you when they see you. Become their hero and charge them forward into battle. Bring the Imperium to its knees."

Fenris's eyes narrowed. "This seems like something we'd be asking you for. Why are you asking this of us?"

Flemeth's eyes practically glowed and a wicked smile crossed her face. "Smart question, but need I give you my reasons? This is a chance for you. To rise up and destroy those who have poisoned your life and the countless lives of others. Why don't you take it?"

He licked his lips, unsatisfied with the answer. It had to have been too good to be true, but the weight of what she was saying was baring down on him heavily now.

"And what are you giving us in return, for us doing this for you?" Hawke asked, voice solid with confidence.

"I provide you the weapon you need to achieve it."

Fenris blinked, but Hawke was looking at him, anxiously rubbing her hands. He had a feeling the witch would not give them much chance to decide, and he felt he needed much of that time.  _We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment, and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap._

So he leapt.

"I accept," he said carefully, unsure of what it was he was supposed to say. Hawke turned back to the witch and repeated his words.

Flemeth nodded her head once, her smile splitting into a grin, and Fenris knew he would be regretting this.

"And so this weapon," Fenris continued.

"It is up to Hawke," Flemeth stated, turning her gaze upon her. "She is your weapon."

Fenris frowned, unsure of what she was implying. He watched her, brow furrowed and staring at the ground. Suddenly her eyes lit up as she looked back to the witch. Face blank, in all seriousness, she said, "I want to be a dragon."

Had the moment not been so tense, Fenris could have laughed. For whatever reason, he could remember, years ago, that she had told him of her first meeting with the witch, desiring most to be able to change form into a dragon. It seemed Flemeth herself had remembered this, laughing unhinged once again.

"Of course, how could I forget? A dragon, though…" Her eyes became misty as she looked towards the sky, likely imagining a million different scenarios. "A formidable weapon indeed. Burn the magisters alive, turn the Imperium to ash."

The idea was tempting, but Fenris wasn't sure exactly how it was supposed to help. A dragon was powerful, but not invulnerable. They had slain one themselves, and the task of turning the Imperium to ash seemed like a task requiring several miracles.

"If this acceptable to you," Flemeth asked Fenris and he glanced back and forth between the two women. He likely did not have a choice, as he did not have any better ideas of what their weapon could be. "As long as the task is possible with this… weapon."

The witch nodded and walked forward, standing in front of Hawke. She held out her hands, insinuating Hawke give hers. Fenris stepped back as a light began to glow around their fingers. The magic, or whatever it might have been, began to pulse around them. Hawke's pupils shrank and her entire body trembled. A quiet hum rang from her body, but for only a second as the light faded. She suddenly seemed out of breath as Flemeth backed away from her.

"Hone your ability, for it won't happen right away," she said. Turning to Fenris, she regarded him curiously. "It will be interesting to see how to take to this task before you. Just remember that you already have support, and you will have no trouble gaining more."

Hawke's knees were buckling and Fenris went to her side, allowing her to lean on him as his arm was around her waist.

Flemeth had turned away from them, taking long strides towards the other edge of the forest clearing. "Good luck," were her final words before her entire being began to glow a bright golden light. Swiftly her form changed into that of the red High Dragon they had witnessed years ago. The beast lunged forward, and with one heavy flap of its wings, took off from the ground, sending a gust over the trees as she took to the sky. They watched her until she shrank away into the distance.

_What have we done?_

Fenris walked alone along the outskirts of the Nevarran city, growing more and more irritated by the noise hovering over him. Ever since that day in the Antivan wilds, he had been harbouring regret for his decision. He wished he had put more thought into exactly what Flemeth had meant to be as a weapon against the Imperium. Currently his "weapon" was circling overhead, screeching bloody murder into the sky. He looked up annoyed to see the dragon about twenty feet above him, no more than four feet in overall length. He watched as it coughed out a small ball of flame before tumbling slightly in the sky, flapping its wings desperately as not to fall. A frown had been etched on his face ever since Hawke had first transformed. The very concept of shapeshifting she had nailed down, but her actual transformation was rather pathetic. Flemeth said it wouldn't happen right away, but now Fenris was wondering exactly  _when_  it was going to get better. They had been travelling two weeks now, and he hadn't seen much improvement.

Sensing his foul mood, Hawke began to circle downward, landing ahead of him and transforming back into herself. She stood still as he caught up, giving him a lopsided grin. She proceeded to link her arm through his they walked together.

"Must you practice that inane shrieking around me?" Fenris snarled.

"I'm practicing my battle cry!" she protested. He simply rolled his eyes.

"I'm certain you will be able to do that once you can turn into a real dragon."

Hawke looked offended, but she couldn't fight the grin that was on her face. "But Fenris! I can still  _become a dragon!_ "

The novelty still hadn't worn off for her. He, on the other hand, had been focused more on what his plans were when they arrived in Tevinter. Through the inns they had recently stayed at, they had asked around for news in the Imperium. The only useful bit of information they had received was that Perivantium, a city close to the Nevarran border, was experiencing unrest. It was a place to start, at the very least. There was of course the matter of actually getting into the country, and then navigate through the city while remaining unnoticed. He was hoping to be able to meet slaves there and somehow find a place to hide. In truth, he had no idea what he was going to do once he got there. He was no military strategist, and Hawke's line of thinking was to become a High Dragon, and intimidate the city officials into surrendering. He also did not know what to expect once they arrived, whether or not slaves would be openly rebelling, or working in secret. The only way to really have a course of action was to actually get there and see. Flemeth promised that they would have support in the country, but he was beginning to question exactly what that meant.

Hawke hadn't seemed to be considering any of this as she spent most of her time flying above him. She truly was trying hard to make her form more impressive, but for the most part she was still getting the hang of flying. It seemed she had this vision of becoming some indestructible high dragon, Fenris riding on her back as she scorched Tevinter down without challenge, magisters screaming as the flesh melted off their bones. It was certainly a more  _romantic_  notion of conquering the country, and he wished it were that easy. But there was so much more to that. To Fenris, it was more a matter of gathering the support of slaves and charging on the magisters as an army. The sheer number of slaves in Minrathous, if brought together to fight, might just have been able to take on the magisters. They may have magic, but certainly not the numbers for their way of life to survive.

As he and Hawke found a shabby roadside inn to stay in that night, he remained almost entirely silent for the night. It was clear that his worry was beginning to show on his face, as Hawke stared at him sadly when they sat by the hearth after their meal. He could only stare into the flames, their hypnotic flickering only managing slightly to put his mind at ease. Hawke slid across the bench to touch him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I don't know anything about leading," Fenris finally admitted to her. One of her hands clasped around his.

"I never did either." He squeezed her hand, running a calloused thumb over her fingers. They were a pair both with rough hands, and yet her touch was always the softest thing he ever felt.

"How are we going to conquer a country?" He wasn't asking anyone specifically but himself. It sat heavy with him, the prospect, but not once did it feel like an obligation. Crushing the magisters was something he wanted in his very soul, and vengeance boiled in his blood, calling for their deaths. This wasn't a task he had to perform for some witch making a deal with him, and by now he knew that it was likely not Flemeth's intention, but he still carried a sense of duty. It was his duty to others like him, to other slaves. He had escaped, but escaping wasn't good enough for the rest. The entire country was due for justice.


	2. Perivantium

 On the surface, the city of Perivantium was swathed in decadence, crude displays of wealth on the exteriors of every mage and magister’s home. The streets were built of cobblestones, tall buildings washed white with the rooftops painted in sorbet colours. In the centre of the city, the marketplace bustled with hundreds of bodies. Each master had his slaves nearby at all times, carrying his wares, bowing their heads alongside him. But if one were to look past it, or rather listen past the commotion, there were whispers. At every market stall, where a slave stood next to their master, there would be a passing glance between them and another. As they moved past each other, crossing paths for only a brief moment, they might mumble a single word so quiet only elven ears would hear it. In one word, there had to be a clear statement, enough that allowed complete communication between strangers.

 That word in the past few days had been “mezzanotte,” and it needed no explanation. Many slaves, and this was never thought of by the magisters, could easily be masters of subterfuge. They knew the streets completely, including every shortcut, every back alley, every secret to getting around the city in the fastest time possible when their masters were barking at them to fetch things. For most slaves, the unofficial map of their city was etched into their brains, and they knew exactly where they were at all times. Taking alleyways, side streets, or even the sewer system, there was an entire world the masters easily overlooked.

 So when a slave heard the word passed onto them from the lips of another, it could only mean one thing. The first time it happened, only the slaves itching most for their freedom knew what to do, but very quickly the word spread. By the second time, the number of participants had tripled. As the word would imply, at midnight, long after their masters had gone to sleep, the able slaves would slip out into the night through their secret network and go wherever the crowds were going. The location changed each time.

 By one hour past midnight, the crowd had swelled to its full capacity, and his name would be repeated in hushed voices before he would appear before them, seemingly out of nowhere, and speak.

 Anima - the soul of - Shartan.

 Fenris was his name, and it was the name everyone else knew but didn’t dare speak, lest a magister be listening. He was the one who had escaped his master from Minrathous, and not only that, defied and killed him. The name Fenris had been in the mouths of the masters all over the country, spitting it angrily, but also with a touch of fear. If truly one slave could kill his master, how many more could do the same? Fenris had the extraordinary power of moving through solid objects like a ghost, his magical tattoos allowing him this, but it didn’t need to take an extraordinary person to commit the murder of an ignorant master. All it took was the collective rage of thousands of years of subjugation channeled into an army. This is what he preached at his midnight meetings, every soul in the room listening, eyes fixated on him and glistening with the dreams of freedom one day truly being possible. And that day could be soon. Very soon.

 When there was more time allowed between slaves to say more than a word between each other, there were talks still spreading his word. They must band together, he would say, the magisters cannot possibly match their numbers if every slave in the Imperium were to join forces. For every master, there had to be ten times as many slaves, and although they would face their wicked magic and armies, it was not enough to crush the spirit of army of people fighting to the death for their freedom. And of course they may fall to the masters’ forces, but it was a sacrifice enough for the futures of their children, and the generations after. There was no war without casualties on both sides.

 From what the slaves could gather, Anima Shartan had been in the Imperium for only a week, not realizing his actions concerning his master were being talked about all over the country. Overheard conversations in the masters’ quarters were constantly about the slain magister in Kirkwall, and how could a slave have shown such defiance? Yet they remained convinced it was more an isolated incident than anything. Still, the more insightful of the magisters were right to be cautious.

 But all the caution in the world would not prepare the masters for what was happening right under their noses.

 —

 Hawke had never experienced any city like this. The sight of it was entirely foreign to her, the colours, the architecture entirely different. Nothing of this place reminded her of Kirkwall in the slightest with its dull and drab stone everything. Perivantium was something else entirely, and she could have spent an age guessing at what everything was made of. Fenris would have sooner spit on it all, but he did mention in passing that the city was nowhere near as impressive - and intimidating - as Minrathous. She didn’t think she could even dream of it.

 In the time it took them to reach the borders of Tevinter, Fenris had been almost entirely introspective, barely speaking to her as she watched him, frown stuck on his face as he mulled over everything. In truth, it was hard to prepare when they knew nothing of what the situations in the cities were like. Fenris had only known what Minrathous was like, period, and he hadn’t been there in over a decade. The only thing giving them a shred of confidence were Flemeth’s words promising that they would have support once they arrived. Getting into the country was no issue, the wilds separating it from Nevarra providing enough cover. Luckily they had been smart enough to make it into the city by the sewers. As much as it reminded them of Darktown, it was more welcome than the public streets, where Fenris would have been recognized so easily. He suggested, should they ever need to walk on the surface, that she act as his master. Hawke was hoping to avoid it, the very suggestion making her sick.

 And then there was the prospect of her shapeshifting. Flemeth had also promised she could become a dragon, but changing her form into anything but a moderately sized flying lizard was downright frustrating. She had made improvements already, but unfortunately, Hawke felt it would be a long time until she could mirror the witch’s own terrifying form. Instead, in the week leading up to their arrival in Tevinter, she had taken to trying different things to change into. A strange thing happened when she accepted Flemeth’s powers; the magic just made sense to her, like she should have known how to use these talents the whole time. She spent the afternoons watching small songbirds, noticing their colours, their movements, everything about them. Then one day, she thought hard enough to become one of them, a tiny sparrow flitting about and singing sweetly. Fenris had stopped in his tracks when he realized what she had done, and when she became herself again, it suddenly hit her as well.

 Only when arriving in the city did Hawke figure out just how useful this newfound ability was. It seemed the dragon form wasn’t the only weapon she could use in Fenris’s fight. Through the city streets, a sparrow was a common sight as any, routinely ignored. Hawke’s presence around other sparrows caused for no alarm from them either. She flew overhead, taking note of the city’s layout, watching ever closely the patterns in which slaves might walk, or where it was safe to meet privately, if only for a moment. As the word had spread from their arrival in quiet murmurs across the city, Fenris told her of the crowds he drew each night. He had been terrified of them at first, never having so much attention in his life, but when he saw their faces, their eyes so full of desire for their freedom hanging on every word he said, he knew he had to be their inspiration.

 Hawke had not been there for any of his midnight gatherings, preferring to remain in the shadows. Perhaps it was best if the slaves did not know of his mage lover, or some of his anti-magister doctrines may have fallen flat. Fenris trusted only one mage, and even that took a lot of time and effort. He couldn’t just expect his potential army to accept it.

 Although his army being potential wasn’t so apparent anymore. From what he told her, it seemed a siege was becoming inevitable.

 Two weeks they had been in Tevinter and already the word “war” was being whispered between slaves. There was not a single way to express just how terrified they both were. Nor was there one for how excited.

 Hawke was perched in a vine, singing a song sweetly as she could while she was keeping an eye on two magisters walking together completely alone in the courtyard. The gardens around her were lush and fully in bloom, sprouting flowers she had never seen before. As the magisters walked further, she would follow, wings flickering before she found somewhere else to land. Finally it seemed they had come to a stop, and she was low enough to hear the conversation. She had done this a lot in the past two weeks, but never was the conversation useful, or even interesting.

 “I don’t know what has been happening,” the first magister sighed with his head hanging low while they sat down on a bench together. “There is tension, surely, but His Grace cannot be serious.”

 This caught Hawke’s attention. Her twiggy talons clung onto the vines and she shut her beak, listening closer.

 “Is it so unreasonable after what happened to Danarius when he went after his slave in that dreadful place in the Marches?”

 The other magister scoffed, folding his arms. “Danarius was a fool. If something is gone from you for ten years, it isn’t coming back.”

 Her eyes narrowed as she heard their words, fuming at how they spoke of Fenris. Still, she was intrigued.

 “There is no reason for His Grace to go slaughtering his kitchen staff just because he thinks they’re up to some plan similar to this Fenris. They’re cooks.”

 The first magister laughed sharply. “Cooks who have access to all the knives, no doubt.”

 Hawke’s heart leapt into her chest, and instantly took off. What they feared the most was coming true; they were suspected, and now innocents were suffering for it. She flew as fast as her wings could take her, weaving in and out of stone pillars, dodging everything in her way until she found her usual entrance into the sewers below the ground.

 Flying through tight spaces was much more difficult, so when she knew where she was going, and she was alone, she landed and immediately took to her form once again. Stumbling slightly, she began to run alongside the water rushing through the tunnels. She peered around corners, seeing many slaves congregating together, all of them quickly moving one way or another. She found the crossroads, and took an immediate left towards where the two had graciously been given a makeshift bedroom by the slaves scrounging for supplies. She threw open the door to what was meant as a small supply room underground, now serving as their cramped quarters, finding Fenris asleep in his bedroll on the floor. He roused as soon as she walked in, closing the door quietly behind her. She crouched down to his level, his eyes bleary, hair shaggy and messy. All his late night meetings had made him exhausted, so he slept in the mornings as much as he could.

 “Fenris!” she breathed frantically. “You aren’t going to like this.”

 She recounted the conversation she had overheard, the whole while, his expression knitted into worry. At the mention of innocent slaves being killed for a magister’s suspicions, his eyes took on a more murderous glimmer. When Hawke finished, she sat down beside him, hand on his back, looking to him for an answer.

 “We strike,” he simply said.

 “Just like that?”

 “I will have to see just how many supporters we now have.” He looked her in the eye, greens blazing with an internal fire. “Find out just what we’re up against. I’ll see where we are tonight in terms of willingness to fight.”

 “Are they angry enough?” Hawke asked, trying to break the tension, but he ignored her jest.

 “Of that I have no doubt. We just need the numbers.”

 With her hand on his back, she could feel his pulse beating fast and hard. She could tell he wanted to react right away, and that it was driving him mad just thinking about the victims. He wanted to prove the Lord Magister’s paranoia right away, by reaching into his chest and pulling out his heart. But Hawke stayed with him for just a few minutes more, silently telling him to wait. As right as he was to want to strike that instant, it would only end badly to be unprepared. She knew, as her arms were around him, idly stroking his hair, that he was thinking more practically. It wasn’t just him anymore, he had an entire army to think about. But it was killing him that he could do nothing until they were ready. He had to make it count when they were.

 —

 Fenris paced about in his tiny room, desperately wishing Hawke was there with him. He was trying his best to swallow the big lump in his throat. Outside the small room he could hear the sounds of the slaves gathering for their midnight meeting. He had refrained from referring to the meetings as sermons, however as the crowds grew bigger and bigger each night, it was starting to feel like he was beginning to preach. Two weeks of doing nothing but speak to a crowd certainly cemented that feeling. He was itching for action. The city of Perivantium was tiny compared to the Minrathous he was used to, but the amount of slaves that lived there were easily enough to topple the masters. However, he supposed simply speaking had its importance; as much as he didn’t care for it, the way it inspired the others was enough for him to keep doing it night after night. As the crowds grew, he could see it in their eyes when he spoke. Even when he was simply telling his story from his initial escape to the point where he killed Danarius, the light in their faces and the murmurs that spread through the crowd were enough to tell him that they were with him.

 Before he had arrived in the city, his story had just given them a glimmer of hope, enough for some to organize. Now they were ready to fight, to be just like him and kill their masters. He just worried about all the ones that were not body guards like him, the ones who had no fighting skills or had even used a weapon in their life. He wondered if his talks should now centre around demonstrations on how to use the most basic of tools as deadly weapons.

 It wasn’t a bad idea, and as the hour of his speech was drawing nearer, he began to scribble down some notes in his messy handwriting on some of Hawke’s paper she had bought from the market. Within a few minutes, he had jotted down everything he could think of, and as the noise outside began to grow louder, he was ready for another night.

 The best kind of weapons were not the kind that were improvised, Fenris had began his speech with. The most valuable tools at the slaves’ disposal were kitchen knives and axes, things actually meant to cut or smash. Every wealthy master worth anything had a kitchen stocked full of various tools, all of which could slice up a person just as easily as they could slice up an animal for supper. He spent a considerable amount of time mentioning that the magisters, as powerful as they were, and as intimidating as they were from a slave’s point of view, they all bled and they all died just like any other. He mentioned that this time of night was perfect for an attack, as the magisters slept in their beds, weapons far out of reach, completely unguarded. All it took was that pointed kitchen knife to slide across a throat or plunge into a heart, and it was one less magister, and that was it.

 The one thing that occurred to him while he spoke of the actual method to killing was that there were many worried glances between people in the crowd. For two weeks he had spoken of ideals and inspired them to think differently, but when faced with the practical, it seemed some of them were uncertain about the actual act of murder. He had to admit, it wasn’t something he ever thought about, since it had been natural to him for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t natural for people to want to kill, but he was hoping that inspiring enough hatred would push them just far enough.

 When he was finished for the night, he was weary. This night, however, he stayed as the crowds dissipated into the tunnels, still talking to some of the wide-eyed spectators asking him questions. He felt swarmed at first, but the admiration was flattering. While he had barely spoken to anyone in the city one on one, the stories they told him were enough to remind him exactly why he wanted this. Soon a small group of them sat on the floor in a circle, Fenris listening to each of their stories.

 One human woman told him of her children being taken from her the instant they were born, sold before she could even hold them. Another’s husband and children were murdered in a magister’s ritual as casually as if he were swatting flies. Fenris was starting to see parallels between their stories and things he had witnessed in Minrathous. Things he had seen Danarius do that he did nothing about at the time. While he felt their stories should make him flare up with anger, he found there was just a heavy feeling in his chest. There wasn’t enough blood in the Imperium that could be spilt to have justice for all the innocents, and the thought troubled him. The only thing he was really aspiring to do was to prevent it from continuing.

 After a while, it was clear the people he was speaking to were growing tired, and he ushered them away to get some sleep for the new day. The worst thing for them was to be exhausted when their masters were ordering them around lest they make mistakes leading to further abuse. He hated to think that his late night talks had done just that to some people.

 As Fenris was heading back towards his supply closet quarters down the narrow hallway, he noticed someone standing just outside his door. She was another elf, short and slender, with reddish brown hair tied back messily. As he approached, she turned to face him, a tanned and freckled face looking at him curiously.

 “Can I do something for you?” Fenris asked her as he waited in front of the door.

 She studied him silently for a moment, and the corners of her mouth quirked up in a smile. She had large brown eyes that twinkled in the low light of the hallway. “Well, they really like you. Been killing masters for years but I never got any attention for it.”

 He looked at her, puzzled as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve been wondering if and when I was going to see you, _Shartan_. Or it’s Fenris, as I’ve heard.”

 He nodded slowly. “What can I do for you, then?”

 The elf woman looked straight forward, away from him. “I have information that might be useful to you, if you’re really planning to strike soon as you seem to be.”

 “Well, whatever helps.”

 She remained unmoved, speaking to the wall. “I am in service to one of the Senators who is close to the Lord Magister as his personal pet and more than occasional spy. I know this city top to bottom and more importantly, I know what the other magisters are up to almost all the time. My master,” she spit the word, “is the paranoid sort. So he has me eavesdrop and chat up his pals in the Senate, and I tell him what he wants to hear. I’ve never once told him the truth, but, I do still hear the truth.”

 Fenris was dumbstruck, but impressed as she finished her spiel, locking eyes with him again. “So, if you want to know anything specific, all you need is ask.”

 Fenris’s brows knitted together in thought. “Thank you. I will, um, keep it in mind.”

 The woman stepped away from the wall to face him, oddly confrontational. “Look, if you’re planning on attacking the magisters soon, you’re going to need some more people who can lead and know this city well. Your demonstration on using garden shovels to knock a person out was nice and all, but most of these people have no training whatsoever and they’ll flail around the second they’re matched against a master. I have some friends who could really train some basic combat skills, if you’re interested.”

 Fenris gave her a small smile. “Thank you. I appreciate it, and I’ll consider your offer.”

 She bowed her head slightly, relaxing her stance. She walked a step closer to him. “You’ll need it, but I have a lot of time to talk, tell you all the things you need to know.” The same twinkle was in her eye as she studied him, and there was something oddly familiar about her. Her eyes became half-hooded as she smirked, placing her fingers delicately on his shoulder. “You should get some rest, though. Unless, of course, you’d like some company.”

 Fenris shrugged his shoulder away from her touch, laughing nervously. Now it was obvious why she seemed familiar. “I’m sorry, you just remind me of someone I used to know.”

 “Oh? I hope that’s a good someone.”

 “Well, she was, or is, a pirate, but… A good person. And, I’m sorry, but I am happily taken.”

 The woman withdrew her hand, smirk turning to a smile, but there was something else in her eyes when he said it that he couldn’t read. She began to move past him towards the tunnels, but before she disappeared, she turned back to look at him. “I’m Raenys, by the way. I’ll see you soon Fenris.”

 Before he could turn around to see her, she had vanished into the tunnels. He hesitated for a moment, finding the entire exchange rather strange. He shook it off as he opened the door to his room. In their makeshift bed, wrapped up in blankets was Hawke, fast asleep and snoring softly. Fenris smiled as he slipped in beside her. He never noticed her walk by as he spoke that night, and often never did. He placed one arm around her. Moulding himself to her body, he shut his heavy eyes, letting sleep overtake him.

 --

 It seemed once the idea of a revolution became a reality, the feeling of hot blood pounding through his body in a fiery passion was replaced by the overwhelming tiredness that came with trying to organize an army of people who were the furthest thing from soldiers. Fenris was sleeping even less, filling his days in the packed crossroads of the underground teaching everything he knew (and could make up) about fighting dirty. He himself was no soldier nor duelist. His “training”, as it were, was to neutralize a threat in any way possible. That, and tearing a foe’s heart out was the feature of his technique. He so terribly wished it were anyone else more qualified teaching these slaves how to fight with makeshift blades carved from stones scrap metal.

 He spent most of his time reminding each and every single person, no matter how much they might have wanted to, never take on a master, especially not a mage, from the front. It didn’t matter how much they wanted the bloodshed, there seemed to be a large amount of slaves clinging to the honour of fighting face on. It would surely kill them, Fenris repeated over and over. This wasn’t a noble’s war, this was a struggle for freedom and it would be bloody. He couldn’t blame them. While many seemed thirsty for their masters’ spilled blood, they were still bound by their conditioning. He saw himself in all of them, when he had first escaped and when he had first met his friends in Kirkwall. It took him years before he could even make eye contact with another as their equal. It didn’t take him long to want to kill Danarius, but that didn’t make him remotely free.

 Sometimes he wondered if the masters were to really lie dead in the streets of Perivantium, or of Qarinus, or even Minrathous, what would happen then? The survivors would have to live their own lives, chained to no master, and chained to nothing.

 He didn’t try to dwell too much on the uncertain future before him, and just thought of how to get there. The woman Raenys he had met had indeed been helpful, showing up at his door the next morning with the friends she promised. There was a human man, hair grey and wiry, with a face that aged him far more than he surely was. Rywin was his name, and it took a long look past his beard to see he was in fact elf-blooded. He was a bodyguard, much like Fenris, and he bared a different set of markings, bizarre and intricate scarring in his skin. Rywin claimed his master attempted the same lyrium ritual as Fenris had undergone, only with no success. It was the first Fenris had heard about it, but word of Danarius’s successful experiment had spread across the country, and it became a trend with other magisters. Danarius was the only one who had ever done it successfully, however, and Fenris gravely suspected that Rywin was not the last person he would see the strange scar tissue on.

 The next was Wren, a Dalish woman who was half-blind and her vallaslin looking much darker and blotchy than he had ever seen before. She did not want to share any story of her scars, she just got to the point. Wren was a midwife, reduced to the status of a wet nurse after the death of her own. Her time in her clan before they were captured was spent over bubbling potions, brewing salves and cures to ailments that only her people knew how. Wren didn’t speak much, just had a stony look on her face and a dagger tucked into the back of her belt. The only thing she really said was that she would tend to wounded when the fights ensued.

 The last one was a young boy, no older than fourteen years, who Raenys had rescued from the Lord Magister’s slaughtered staff. He still shook when he spoke, the horrors of seeing all the others slaughtered before him in a whirlwind of magic and blades fresh in his mind. His name was Pierto, surviving the night by the skin of his neck, playing dead among the bodies around him. He may have only been a child, but he was remarkably observant, absorbing every detail overheard in his former master’s home. Perivantium might not have been a major contender in the politics of the country, but it had its dealings.

 “Perivantium is asleep compared to Qarinus,” the elven child muttered, his eyes flicking around to each of the faces around him. “Only a week ago, the Lord Magister had a letter from there. He read it out loud to his wife as I walked past the room with the laundry.” Pierto paused, stroking his jaw when his gaze turned downcast. “Slaves were ‘openly defying their masters’, as he said. People were getting killed. And so he wanted to make sure his slaves didn’t do the same.”

 He spoke plainly, regurgitating the information monotonously. There was a numbness in him that Fenris could only guess was his armour for putting up with the days that stretched out while the Lord Magister was still alive.

 It was the evening now, and while Wren, Raenys and Pierto had left, Fenris had spent the rest of the day gathering the masses in his usual way, Rywin silently watching him from the side. The crossroads were like a large but flat theatre, with Fenris in the middle of a sea of bodies crowding around to hear him. When he spoke, his deep voice boomed proudly, echoing off the rounded walls in a tone he once never would have dreamed of taking. And at least he thought most were absorbing what he taught about flanking. He just didn’t know how many were ready to do it.

 “It isn’t about a fair fight,” Fenris said, feeling the back of his throat beginning to tickle after speaking for so long that day. “Like I’ve said, it might be tempting to let the masters have some sort of advantage, but I assure you doing so will only mean death.” He was pacing around the small clearing, a shiv in one hand that had been fashioned out of a scrap of iron. It was pointy at the end, and impressively, one side had managed to be filed down to a fine edge, no doubt able to leave a mark. He returned it to the frail hands of the elven woman that it belonged to, and ran his fingers through his hair that was becoming sticky with sweat. He felt once again exhausted, and just the proximity of the bodies surrounding him was enough to put him on edge. As much as they left a clearing for him to demonstrate, it was still enough to feel suffocating. He remembered the first night he had spoken, the modest crowds gathering, being able to see all of their faces.

 “But,” he heard a stammer somewhere a few rows of faces back. It didn’t continue, but it only took that one word of doubt to make him audibly sigh.

 “This isn’t about fighting fair, he said,” Rywin’s voice suddenly cut through. The man stepped forward into Fenris’s circle, a stern but not angry look on his face. “Do you understand it? This isn’t some duel between our masters and us that they consented to!” The circle was swelling as the bodies pushed back, allowing more room as Rywin moved to the centre of it. His hair looked more wild than before, harsh folds in his face creasing deeper as his face twisted into a snarl. “None of us ever consented to living like this! If you want your masters to never lay a finger on you again, to never beat you, not to sell your babes away before you see their faces, you have to tear them apart.”

 The crowd was silent, but Fenris could feel his heart hammering against his chest as the bodyguard took centre stage.

 “Every single one of them, dead, that’s right. You can’t fix it by showing mercy. And thousands of years of our subjugation will never be paid back until we are ankle-deep in the blood of the magisters and their fowl spawn!”

 Fenris could feel more than just his own heartbeat. In the silence of the crowd, he could feel a pulse humming, and perhaps it was just his imagination, but the once dumbstruck faces surrounding him were taking on a sharper look.

 “So cut their throats,” Rywin growled, suddenly becoming guttural. A ripple of sound spread through the room. “Every hand they ever put on you, cut it off!” The murmur grew louder, fiercer. “Maybe you can’t tear out hearts,” he gestured to Fenris, “but do your best to try.”

 The first cry was heard near the back, as the rest of the crowd chimed in. Rywin was in the middle of it all, Fenris standing to to side, mesmerized by the reaction he was getting. He could feel the same fire in his veins as the pulse of each and every heartbeat was felt in his limbs. Eyes alight, he opened his mouth in their war cry.

 “ _Tear out their hearts!_ ” came one voice, and it was his own, but it quickly swelled to a chant in the vast crowd that now seemed to go on for miles. His feet carried himself mindlessly forward, and the people moulded around him, the space between them closing as he was walking towards one of the tunnels. He didn’t realize until the fear gripped him that he was leading them to the surface. His revolution was happening now. The pulse of the mob was all around him, all in synch at a steady tempo. His blade was on his back, where it always was, and his armour on, but was he expecting this to happen? The collective chant calling for blood all around him was drowned, his mouth still saying those words as he moved to what was now the front of the army. They were all ready with their weapons. How had this all fallen into place?

 The only thing he could feel was the same fire in his blood that burned as strongly as it did when he saw Danarius for the last time.

 “ _Shartan_!”

 Raenys was at his side, looking blurry as he looked right through her. She was shaking, a look of panic in her eyes, where did she come from? She was screaming over the noise.

 “It’s begun!” she cried, and the rest was absorbed into the chaos.

 —

 Raenys would see it all start that night, and she knew it would start as she stood by idly against the wall of the alleyway, picking at her nails and making it look like she waited for someone. For something. Just beyond the other wall in front of her, she could hear the typical drunken revery in the tavern through open windows. And on the wall in front of her was a piece of graffiti she had been trying not to stare at for the past half hour. In white paint, hastily splattered onto the decrepit wall was what had to be a symbol she would be seeing a lot of very soon. It had been popping up all over the city, in the dirty side streets and the tunnels beneath the roads. It was drawn crudely, no slave ever having artistic training, but it curiously resembled the lyrium markings on Fenris’s chin. It was vague enough to remain as a symbol, but clear to anyone who had seen his face.

 She turned her attention to the street beyond the alley, watching the remaining masters followed around by their slaves, their heads bowed down in subservience, but she saw the unnatural folds in their clothing concealing their shivs, their daggers, so small they’d never be found. Ever since Shartan’s arrival, she had seen the whispers of rebellion turn to barely muted screams. Every single day, she heard of slaves just daring enough to slit their masters’ throats while they slept, burning the bodies and scattering the remains. Each death was subtle, quiet, no way of possibly gathering any attention. These were only moderately wealthy mages, nobody of note, but it was still enough to break the chains of some. Those some were ready to kill again.

 The sound of the bar door bursting open was enough to shock her out her thoughts as the bellowing voice of a drunken mage shattered the otherwise calm night air. She couldn’t make out any words, and she almost cracked a smile until she heard the sounds of struggle. Another woman’s voice, begging pathetically underneath the gruff sounds of the man. She saw them moving down the stairs, the man with a fistful of the slave’s hair, her whimpers a tiny protest. Too often she had seen the sight, but it always made her feel sick in the pit of her stomach. She almost blocked it out when she heard something she had never heard before.

 “Get- get your fucking hands off me!”

 The woman shrieked with all she had, drawing the attention from everyone else within a close proximity. Raenys saw the look on the woman’s face when she realized what she had done.

 “Whuh you sayna me, bitch?” the master spat, having let go of her hair in shock, but that hand raised quickly, striking the hunched woman across the face in a hard slap. She yelped in pain, stumbling backwards with the man standing over her with all the intimidation he could muster. Raenys was standing near the edge of the alley watching the pair as they moved into the middle of the road.

 It all happened in split second it seemed without any time to predict what would happen next. There was no flash or sound of steel to warn anyone, just the red stain of blood on the master’s neck pooling around the dark iron shiv stuck right into his throat. He spluttered, gurgling on his own blood, the crimson spilling out of the wound, turning into a small fountain when the woman pulled her weapon out. He fell to his knees before her, the woman’s hands stained with blood as her head whipped around, catching the gaze of every frozen onlooker. Other masters, mage and not were staring at their fallen comrade, the slaves’ gaze fixed on the woman.

 Without a warning, a cry came from the opposite end of the street. Raenys’ attention snapped towards it, another red streak across the neck of a clocked mage whose head had been pulled back from behind. As if time had skipped ahead, the entire street was suddenly in chaos, flashes of bright red appearing at her peripheral, splattering the ground, the screams of man and woman echoing further out through the streets. Raenys turned on her heel, heading through the alley away from the violence, her heart pounding in her ears, but unable to stop the smile from cracking on her face. She was out of breath by the time she reached the first entrance into the lower tunnels. It’s begun.

 —

 They all knew it was coming soon, but somehow they knew it would happen right that second. He didn’t have time to ponder it when they burst out of the single door leading out of the tunnels. Fenris was right in front, his lyrium tattoos humming with their glow, prickling his skin. There was a single wide staircase leading up the marketplace where he heard the screams already ringing out. The air was thick with the smell of blood, sitting heavy on the back of his tongue.

 “ _Tear out their hearts!_ ”

 The battle cry was set in stone now, as the flood of people came up behind him, charging forward into the streets. His blade was in his hands, clutching it for dear life. He watched the bodies of the masters drop around him, slaves hacking at them with the small weapons. He kept running until he could find another living master, lyrium glowing like a beacon under the night sky.

 His first swing came down on a mage with fire glowing in his hands, the blunt side bashing the wind out of him as he fell to the ground. The fire escaped his grasp, rocketing forward and hitting the nearest wall, the explosion sending sparks flying all around them. Fenris stuck the end of his sword into the mage’s stomach, watching the blood flower around the wound, the final choking sound once the life faded form his eyes.

 He didn’t hesitate as the sound around him grew louder, spells flying through the air. The magisters were awake now. He moved through the dissipating crowds, shoving past falling bodies, both slave and master. He turned a corner, greeted by the sight of the marketplace in flames. He almost paused, eyes wide. Five magisters stood in the middle of the circle, welts dug deep in their wrists not put there by any foe of theirs. There seemed to be some barrier around them, their hands held together, their blood staining their robes as their mouths moved in a silent spell. There was no time to gawk, as Fenris swung his blade defensively above his head to block the incoming blow of a smaller blade. He felt a shield bashing into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. With a hoarse growl, he fought back against the slaver, pushing away the other blade, leaning forward and charging into him with his spiked shoulder. The armour left a gash through canvas clothing, knocking the slaver down enough for Fenris to deliver the same blow to the last.

 It was becoming clear that the blood he was tasting wasn’t his own, but it was in the air from the spell the magisters were generating. The barrier around them was starting to glow, and he worried what was coming next. He just charged forward still, striking down any master getting the one up on slaves. In only a second he could see it was not the glorious victory he would fantasize about. He was nearly tripping over the bodies of slaves ended by far less bloody means, their skin tarnished with magical burns. Patches of fire were starting around him, catching on flags and awnings on the walls, the smell of burning cloth sitting heavy on top of the taste of blood.

 “ _Tear out their hearts!_ ” 

 His tattoos burning bright, his hand plunged into the chest of a magister running straight towards him, staff at the ready. His spell fell flat as he seized, Fenris’s clawed hand twisting inside his body, freeing the throbbing red flesh from his ribs. Immediately he dropped it, dashing out of the market square towards the direction the magisters were coming from.

 Prickling in the back of his throat. The stench of blood coming up in the back of his throat before being expelled form his mouth. He hunched over, seeing the dark red pooling on the staircase he was halfway up. His knees crashed onto the stone, and he was falling.

 --

 Far away in the distance, the buildings were alight with fire, but Raenys didn’t look back. The revolt was nothing like she could have pictured, starting so spontaneously and exploding through the streets. In the previous weeks, the tension in the city was wound so tight, it was only a matter of time before something snapped. She had to admit she was unprepared, and as soon as she had found Fenris marching up from the tunnels, she had disappeared once again once the crowd had burst into the streets. She raced through all the backstreets in directions only she knew, snaking behind buildings while the sound of war wailed in the near distance. She prayed to the Maker, to the Old Gods, to the Elvhen gods, anyone that they would not be crushed here.

 She nearly busted down the door to her house, her own house, not the estate of a magister. She didn't belong to anyone. She silently said a thousand thank-you’s when she saw him still sitting in his chair, pondering one of her books.

 “Silas!” she cried, rushing towards him and clutching the boy to her chest.

 “Mum?” he questioned, nearly choking from her tight grasp.

 “Get in the cellar, lock the door, be silent, do not open it until you hear my voice.” She pulled away from the boy, eyes wide and filled with fear. “Please, ma vhenan.”

 The boy nodded quickly, tearing off to the corner of the room to open the trapdoor. Raenys whirled around the room, looking for her weapon. Hastily she grabbed the belt hanging by the mantle, tying it around her waist. Just as she turned, ready to leave, there was someone in her door.

 “The magisters are still far away enough from the fighting, if we leave now, we might have a chance!” Pierto shouted from just outside the room. Raenys didn’t say anything, just looked behind her to see the trapdoor now shut. Pierto ran out, and she followed him, dashing back into the streets.

 —

 The barrier around the magisters in the market was now gone. Fenris spat out the last of the blood that had forced itself up through his throat. His knees buckled, but he grasped his sword, forcing himself to stand. He turned back towards the marketplace. The barrier had evidently blown up from the centre, bodies strewn about the blood-soaked ground. The spell had made them all vomit and choke on their own blood. Hundreds of them. Sound seemed to cease in his ears as he nearly began to wretch for real.

 If he hadn’t gone up the stairs…

 He had to move, but the magisters had spotted him now, their staves at the ready. He had to move to fight back, stomach still twisting from witnessing their vile display.

 One was knocked to the side by a spell, the rest of them snapping their heads backwards with an eerie synchronicity. A small winter storm was hurled at the pack, knocking them down.

 “Hawke!”

 Her staff whirled around in her hands, and Fenris didn’t hesitate to run to the mages, sword at the ready, dodging bodies on the ground. He slashed at the men beginning to stand again. Hawke’s bolts of ice impaled two of them. When it was done, they wordlessly ran together up the steps towards the residences, beginning to inhale the smoke around them.

 —

 The cellar was filled with wine bottles that clinked when they moved near the shelves. Pierto shot a crazed look back at Raenys when she bumped into one of them, sending a single bottle crashing to the floor. She stepped over the broken glass, avoiding his look as they moved quickly. Pierto carefully opened the trapdoor on the ceiling, peering through the crack, signalling that it was safe.

 This was the Lord Magister’s estate. Nauseatingly grand, Raenyes had only ever seen if from a distance, but up close, she was looking forward to setting it aflame. It was dead quiet in the house as they slinked through the rooms undetected. Pierto, knowing the layout, was able to find the simplest path past the few remaining guards that the Lord Magister was able to keep after the incident. They had barely said a word to each other since leaving her home, but Raenys knew why they were here.

 The Lord Magister had his house situated on the very top of a hill overlooking the city. Pierto claimed the estate was built there originally because the owner at the time hated the noise that came from the city. Even the Senate was located lower than the house, and although Raenys never thought about it, the quietness was unnerving considering the chaos in the city. Ironically, it left its residents completely vulnerable.

 The easiest way to navigate the place was to move through the now empty slaves quarters. Much to Pierto’s distress, all the belongings the slaves had were now gone, the rooms completely ransacked of all materials. Raenys urged him to not dwell on it, nudging him along as he lead them towards the Lord’s bedchamber. In the barren hallway, Pierto was just outside the door, fingertips hovering over the handle. Exchanging glances, he opened it ever so slowly, praying the hinges wouldn’t creak. The moonlight shone in through the window, so peaceful, she questioned if the fighting was happening at all below.

 Raenys was still, but Pierto moved across the floor with a catlike grace he had no doubt learned from watching her in the years they knew each other. In the middle of the room was the lavishly large bed, the Lord and Lady asleep. Any other time, Raenys would be amused by the fact that they slept on the very edges, sleeping as far away from one another as they could. She began to creep to the other side of the bed after Pierto.

 He knelt just before the magister’s face, watching him sleeping oblivious. He didn’t breath as he pulled the knife from his belt, but he hesitated. Raenys was opposite him in front of the sleeping Lady, her weapon ready for a quick and silent slice across the throat.

 “I want him to see me,” Pierto said firmly, and Raenys’ heart stopped as the volume was enough to let the magister stir. She could only guess he had woken up as he let out a yelp, and then a scream as Pierto raised the dagger above his head, plunging it into the man’s heart. The noise woke up the Lady, but Raenys was fast enough to cover her mouth, running her blade across her pale neck, the whole while eyes fixed fiercely on her companion. The magister’s wife gagged as her eyes rolled back, going blank, and the knife was back in its holster. No doubt the sound would have caught the attention of guards somewhere in the house, so there was no point in trying to stay silent any longer.

 Raenys raced to the other side of the room, kicking open the door to the balcony, below seeing the fires in the streets below. For a second she balked, stunned at the sight. Pierto grabbed her hand as he rushed past her. She was enraged by his carelessness still, but he bent down, fingers laced together signalling he was ready to boost her up onto the roof. Having no choice but to oblige, her heel was in his hands and she felt him lift her up, and she grabbed onto the shingles above. Hauling herself up, she turned backwards, offering her hands to the boy. Luckily he was light, although everything in her mind was telling her to abandon him for how much he had just compromised their escape.

 He was lucky he was so naturally clever and slippery enough to escape just about anything. She still had to trust him.

 —

 Fenris lost Hawke all too quickly when he reached the top of the staircase, but he supposed it was only natural. She was easily mistaken for a magister the way she wielded her staff. But by now he had carved his way through the swarms and was in front of the Senate, and the centre of the hellscape before him.

 The magisters were unhinged here, all of them out of their homes, raising the bodies of fallen slaves to fight back. The lot of them were bleeding heavily from their self-inflicted wounds to channel their horrific spells, throwing slaves away left and right. Still he couldn’t give up, grim as he felt. His sword flashed in the light of his markings, bashing and slicing through mages too wrapped up in their spells to see him coming. All around him, he could see, smell and taste nothing but blood.

 He had never witnessed anything like this before. Blood magic was never so horrific, the demons summoned more twisted and evil than he had ever remembered. The dread was crushing with every slave he watched slain, but still he moved, hands reaching to tear out more black hearts. He just wished there had been more time. The fighting had started so quickly. There was no time to train, no time to organize, no time for Hawke to become a fucking dragon like Flemeth promised.

 A dragon was what he needed now. To rain fire down on the world and purge it of everything as deplorable as the Tevinter Imperium. He didn’t care if he was caught in it himself, if only it put an end to the insanity.

 Everything in him wanted to give up. His body ached from the spells he suffered, wounds crying out for healing. His sword was too heavy in his hands, arms about to fall off. His voice was hoarse from screaming in rage. Dropping his sword finally, he let the worst pain of all sear through his body, lyrium burning as bright as it ever had, forcing himself onward.

 “ _Tear out their hearts!_ ”

 He heard it again. It was picking up volume. The magisters around him were dropping. There was a heart in his hand and he was reaching for the next. There were mages at his feet frozen to death and he felt comfort knowing Hawke was near. More slaves were pouring in from the other roads, all covered in blood, crying out in rage as they stormed into the city centre, weapons raised high above them. Someone was at his side, arm around his weary frame, helping him back up.

 “The best weapons are from the kitchen,” Hawke said in his ear as he stood up straight, following her as she wielded a dagger with all the finesse of a flailing madwoman. Her staff was no longer on her back. Fenris was now relying on his bare hands, ripping apart any master in his way, feeling all the viscera on his fingertips. Somehow he felt the most triumph he had that night.

 The fighting went on, the hoard of slaves swelling as even more poured in, and Hawke was right about the kitchens. All of these slaves had escaped from the confining homes of the magisters just after killing them. These were the ones he never saw in his underground meetings. His word had reached the ones imprisoned in estates, in constant service to their masters. They fought just as hard. The remaining magisters were overwhelmed by their numbers alone.

 The magisters could make no final effort. The night stretched on, more and more of them falling until-

 Until there were no more to fall.

 Hours after the first blow had been struck and there ceased to be another. It was clear enough when a small band came through the streets, the Lord Magister’s head stuck on the blade of his own staff. The numbers were growing in the centre of the city, but the dissent was ebbing. The more slaves gathered, the less violence, the more mourning. Screams turned to murmurs. The smell of blood at last grew less sharp.

 Fenris couldn’t recall the final blow he had dealt as he was soon crouched among the others, helping to line up the bodies to be identified. It was brought to his attention that there were some masters still alive, wearing the chains they once shackled their slaves with. They had surrendered, but he had no intention of giving them anything but death.

 He didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t even know if it was over. The voices around him were the same, constantly asking questions. Just how did one win a battle? It truly did seem that Perivantium had been taken. The soul of Shartan had risen up, reincarnated and lead his people to victory. It was all far from over, but in a single night, the revolt had proven victorious.

 It may have taken until the next night for all the bodies to be identified, however, the Veil couldn’t have been stable where they were. The sun was on the rise while the efforts for the dead continued. Hawke had taken to the injured, performing what healing magic she could. She had barely shown her face to anyone since they arrived; she feared her magic would flag her as the enemy, but her knowledge of healing was welcomed. Fenris worked at the task of separating the magisters’ bodies to be burned before their demon servants could possess them.

 He was issued away soon by Rywin, the man shaking and pale but otherwise still healthy. The masters who surrendered were to be tried in front of the crowd. There was one final flight of stairs leading to the very front of the Senate building. The prisoners had been taken there. As he ascended, the murmurs in the crowd died down, every pair of eyes on him. He reached the top, glaring down at the prisoners in chains, their heads down. But when he looked out across the crowd, his heart nearly stopped.

 When word spread between slaves, it never took long for every single person to hear it. When he spoke underground to his crowd of a few hundred, there was no way of preparing for the numbers he faced now. The city centre stretched out wide, a vast circle that connected every passageway. And that entire circle was filled and overflowing now, thousands of free people looking up to him as the reason they were all there. He was speechless, trying to see every single face filled with sorrow for their loss, but also triumph in everything they were to gain.

 He looked back down at the prisoners, but quickly he addressed the crowd. His throat was sore but it did not stop him for shouting as loud as he could for all to hear, in his mother tongue, "We are free!"

 The crowd, once silent, erupted with cheers. It was louder than the fighting, louder than horror that had taken place that night. He finally began to feel again, his heart filling with joy, gazing upon each face before him. The cheering quieted when he was ready to speak again.

 "When I was first free from my master, I had no idea what freedom was until many years afterward. And I don't want any of you to feel the same way." He paused, taking a deep breath. "You fought for your freedom, and many others like you will do the same. But do not forget that Perivantium was the first." Once again, the crowd roared. "The magisters deserve nothing better than death!"

 Once he had finished, he looked down at the first captive unmoving next to him. There was still a blade in the holster around his belt, and Fenris withdrew it. Without another word, he grabbed the man's hair, pulled back his head and slit his throat.

 The support continued as he did the same to the following four, their bodies now lying limp on the stone floor. He began to pace afterwards as he always did when he was nervous before continuing.

 "I ask you now, if you will follow me across the Imperium to help others such as yourselves, not as captives, but as free people."

 The cheers only continued, and with that came relief. The other cities were only more populated than Perivantium, and with this army of, he could only guess roughly ten thousand, he would need all the army he could get.

 Flemeth's words echoed in his head, "you will have support," she said, and she couldn't have been more right. When he was finished speaking, the crowd that stood before him all began to drop to one knee. His jaw nearly dropped at the sight, the front rows starting before the entire crowd do the same. This was not a symbol native to this land, this was a gesture seen in the other countries. It was not one of submission, but one of loyalty, accepting him as their leader. He wondered how they all seemed to know it, but his eye finally caught Hawke's face near the bottom of the stairs, that familiar smirk on her face. He had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, glad to accept the gesture instead.

 From that moment on they were Shartan's Army. Fenris stepped down from his platform, joining Hawke at the bottom. Shortly, he was followed by Rywin, who brought them to where the injured were still being treated, where Wren, Pierto and Raenys were situated in helping out. Fenris thanked them for their help, and they accepted their rightful places as lieutenants that he offered them. He introduced Hawke, finally, while they worked.

 There was another beside Raenys, a boy about Pierto's age who stayed half hiding behind her. She said he was her son, Silas. She also admitted she had not been a slave, rather a slave that had been legally freed many years ago. She didn't speak more of it. The boy didn't say much, just stared at Fenris with large blue eyes, not the same as his mother's.

 When the night came, the fires burned as the funerals for the fallen soldiers carried on through the night. The dead magisters did not receive as much ceremony. Thousands of bodies burned for the entire night as Fenris gathered with his new lieutenants, discussing strategies. Rywin suggested they move north. The closest city to them was Vyrantium, which sat on the coast in the middle of the country. They did not know what to expect there, but with a gathering of thousands, it would take at least a week to reach the city. The sooner they could move, the better.

 In the next few days, those willing to follow Fenris into battle once again went with him, the others staying behind to guard what they had rightfully taken. And as they left Perivantium, Fenris walked at the very front of his army, sure that the news would spread across the land faster than he could ever hope to reach their next destination. He just hoped the support he had would continue elsewhere.

 


	3. Necromenian

Ever since Perivantium, over five thousand capable warriors had joined him as his official army. Those from the city who had found themselves able to fight off their share of magisters had enlisted as troops under Rywin’s command. Fenris still had no idea how to lead an army, but the older elf made up for what he lacked. In the days following the sacking of the city, Rywin had taught those able much more than any of his own flailing demonstrations from the under city ever did. Fenris had taken up residency in the Senate building, as did many others left homeless. He was ready to move on to the next city any time soon, but the others warned him to anticipate retaliation from surrounding areas. They stood ready, training and treating the wounded for nearly two weeks, and the only people coming into the city were messengers. Many of them came from Vyrantium, the closest city to where they were. After news of Perivantium reached the other cities, the slaves there had begun to take it into their own hands. Perivantium was small compared to the other cities, and places like Vyrantium had much higher concentrations of magisters. It was clear that they needed the help.

A few days after first hearing the news of Vyrantium, Fenris decided to march north with his army. Many others stayed behind to keep and protect the city while many still healed, but none of them planned to stay long. From there, they moved on. The landscape of southern Tevinter was wide and unforgiving. The heat from the sun beat down on them for three days, the nights providing wicked cold for them to deal with. It also wasn’t easy to feed an army of thousands, rations only just able to sustain them.

It couldn’t be said that Vyrantium went down as easily as Perivantium had. The magisters had already been whittled down to about half their numbers, but at great cost to the ones fighting for their freedom. It took three nights until the last master lay dead, their Lord Magister slain at the hands of a hundred former slaves. The skies had been dark for those entire three days, a permanent night for the fight, proving little time to rest. It only started to ease on the final day, the sun reaching through the black clouds overhead. Fenris had done the same as he had before, allowing the city to heal while bracing for the backlash that never came. It worried him that there wasn’t a single band of slavers, nor a single group of magisters attempting to take back the city.

“Maybe they’re intimidated by us.”

Fenris snorted while he leaned over the large table in the modest room in the Vyrantium Senate. He heard Raenys and Rywin sharing chuckles as well and he looked up to see Hawke glaring at him with her arms crossed.

“You haven’t met many magisters,” Raenys quipped. “Even just one should be able to think he can take an entire city.”

Fenris nodded in agreement, sighing as he drummed his fingers on the table. Before him was an old map of the Imperium, all of its landmarks sketched out by another’s hand. Sitting just to his side were a number of letters, all of them from other cities in the Imperium, all except for Minrathous. It was very far from where they were, but there hadn’t been a single word from the capital. Still, one of the letters was from Qarinus, which had to be just as far as Minrathous, and still nothing. This reason was why they had gathered in the Senate that day, huddled around a map. Vyrantium was right smack in the middle of Tevinter on the coast. The country was “horseshoe-shaped” as Rywin put it, most of its major cities dotting the long curved coastline with the island of Seheron to the north. It wasn’t convenient, as they could only go one way. They were gathered around the table trying to decide just which way to go. The lack of letters, or even just rumours coming from other newly freed slaves who had flocked to the city unnerved them. In the weeks they had spent sitting still in Vyrantium, a few hundred had come from both east and west to report the dealings. All up the east side of the country, the cities had been in revolt, following in Perivantium’s footsteps. Fenris supposed the magisters would be busy fighting back to keep their own, which would explain their lack of presence elsewhere. Still, that wasn’t every magister, some of them had to have fled in cowardice.

His eyes flicked up to watch as the others all leaned over the table in the same manner as himself. They had been in the room for hours, sharing everything each person had said. The few letters that he did have were from no slaves, all of them signed by Soporati claiming to support him. He took the letters with a grain of salt, not exactly willing to trust their every word. But the rumours coming from the mouths of slaves eventually began to confirm them.

“Minrathous must be really hurting,” Raenys stated after a long pause in their discussion. “Maker knows what’s happening there if we haven’t heard a single word.”

Rywin grunted, holding one hand out over the map. “I still think we should work to topple Qarinus. It’s ripe and ready for the taking, it just needs an extra push.”

“Are you sure they aren’t good enough to take care of themselves? Not everywhere needs us, I’m sure they can do it.” The elf was looking across the table at Rywin, her eyebrow cocked. “But Minrathous? The most powerful mages live there, by far outranking the other cities. There’s no way any slave revolt there is near enough to kill them.”

“Minrathous has stood against four separate attacks in history,” Fenris added. “Andraste herself couldn’t take the city, why would we be able to with our numbers?”

“Perhaps with the support of those in Qarinus,” Rywin continued.

“Would we really have time?” Raenys asked, voice hitching just slightly.

“There is also the bridge that connects the island to the mainland,” Fenris said grimly. “If we go to Minrathous, we may find it destroyed. It was meant to be if there was ever a real threat. If it is, we’ve wasted our time.” He looked to the very northeast of the map, a dot labeled “Qarinus”. He stared at it, letting the idea linger. “If we move towards Qarinus, we’ll also pass through Necromenian and Carastes. I’m sure we can gain more support there, but it will still take months to reach the north coast.”

“You’re also discounting Asariel, Marnus Pell and Vol Dorma!” Raenys objected, the accent rising in her voice as she pronounced the names of the cities.

Fenris hung his head over the map once again, and they were back to square one it seemed. However, there was one more matter that may have made his decision for him. He looked up at Hawke, and then once again around the table, and stood up straight. “I think I need more time to think about this.”

Neither Raenys nor Rywin seemed pleased with his answer, but they quickly bowed their heads and left the room. He still wasn’t used to those gestures. He looked at Hawke standing across from him, arms folded at her chest. His shoulders slumped, but once he saw them leave, he reached for one of the pockets on his belt. He took out a tiny scroll of paper tied up with a small red ribbon. Hawke eyed him curiously as he unrolled it.

“There is another matter,” he muttered, and Hawke rounded the table to stand next to him. He scanned over the letter he had kept to himself since he had received it that morning. She waited for him to read it out.

_Dear Shartan,_

_If I had known just how much this had blown up since I first heard of a mysterious elf ripping out the heart of every magister across Tevinter, I would come to find you sooner. Honestly! I’m just glad you’ve found something to do with your time. Listen, I’ve got something you’d really like, but it’s a surprise. I’m in Necromenian. Come find me in a dockside inn called The Scarlet Harlot. Hope I can see you soon._

_\- An Old Friend_

Fenris let the letter roll back into its tight coil and he looked at Hawke.

“Isabela,” she mumbled while pressing one hand to the side of her face.

“Any idea what this surprise could be?” Fenris asked, annoyed at the secrecy of it.

Hawke pursed her lips together, frowning at the floor. “I’m assuming she got her ship after Kirkwall. But that’s not really a surprise.”

Fenris had slipped the letter back into his belt. “I’ve decided on going to Qarinus,” he stated, wondering to the other side of the table. “I know what the magisters are capable in Minrathous, and if we’re going to attack there, we better have every single body with us when we do. I just hate to leave it fester.” He swallowed, his mind still doubting after he had made his decision. “I just hope that when we do, it isn’t too late.”

Hawke was silent, still pondering the floor tiles. “Are you going to look for Isabela?”

He nodded. “We’ll need to get there before the army. That’s in Rywin’s hands. You’ll come with me a day ahead in secret before we strike.”

She was looking at him, a smile playing on her lips. “Oh, that sounds like a command,” she said, voice dropping to a sultry tone.

Fenris stammered before he could say anything else. Hawke just laughed.

“I’m only joking. But you’re sure you want to meet her?”

His face became still again, eyes staring down at the map. “It would be wise to. She isn’t just popping by for a visit.”

“Then I’m with you.” Hawke smiled, her blue eyes lighting up with it. He just smiled back. With one last glance at the map before leaving, he still wondered if he was making the right decision.

\--

“I can’t leave the west alone.”

The morning he and Hawke were about to leave, they had found Raenys at the stables, situating herself as well as her son on the back of a horse. Fenris just looked up at her, trying to appear angry, but his eyes looked more disappointed than anything. She was was holding onto the reigns, arms wrapped around Silas as she practiced trotting around the ground of the stables. A bow and quiver were slung on her back, and she looked well armoured. Silas himself was wearing leather bracers and other pieces that looked too large for him, but were better than nothing.

“Are you sure?” Fenris asked after her as she worked to control the horse, slowing him down to a stop in front of them.

“I’m only going to scout, and to spread the word,” she reassured. “I’ll find you again, don’t worry.”

Of course he was going to, but it seemed she couldn’t be convinced to stay with them. She looked at him with a sorry expression.

“I’m going to find out what’s happening in Minrathous. Somebody has to know.” She lead the horse around in a circle, just glancing over her shoulder before she began to head off away from the sunrise.

Fenris looked over at Hawke who was busy stroking the neck of one of the horses. He absolutely refused to ride a horse, having never done it before, and Hawke begrudgingly accepted that trying to get him on one was only going to slow them down. Instead they elected to walk to Necromenian. It was a few days journey, and they were alone for it, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. The army would only be a day behind them.

Raenys departure was unexpected, but also not surprising. Whatever was in the West had drawn her concern, enough to go out alone with her child. She seemed resourceful enough, but she wasn’t invincible, especially not when the land had become so unpredictable.

If the rumours and letters were true about the other cities, Necromenian was no exception. Fenris was glad to know that his army was only a day behind him as he and Hawke moved as quietly as they could through the streets. It was not so much open warfare in the city, but the marketplace was remarkably quiet, the few people they did see keeping their slaves in tight chains as they moved through the sidewalks. They didn’t linger for very long in the town, moving to the docks, eyes open for the aforementioned inn.

The sun had nearly set when they found it, their stomachs growling having nearly run out of rations. The very exterior of the place screamed Hanged Man, not looking like it fit Tevinter at all. It was bizarre, but it was definitely the right place. When they walked in, Fenris was hit with a wave of memories of Kirkwall. The inside was made of wooden planks, smelling better than Kirkwall, but not nearly as nice as any building in Tevinter. The smell of cheap but not so terrible ale hung heavily in the air, seeming to have soaked into the wood around them. There were few patrons, all of them looking drunk, their heads resting on wooden tables.

Fenris was wearing dark, thick clothing, everything to conceal his markings. The clothes were hot, and he had been sticky with sweat all day, but he still remained unrecognized. Hawke walked just ahead of him, letting him trail behind. As much as she hated the idea, even just posturing to appear to be his master was keeping the eyes off of him. She had quickly approached the bartender, the letter Isabela had written in her hand, demanding in a loud and clear voice he tell her who sent it. He grumpily told her the room number without a fuss.

The smell of the pub began to fade as they made their way to the end of the hall to the room described as a suite. Fenris glanced nervously at Hawke when she knocked on the door, pulling his hood back just slightly. There was a scuffle on the other side of the door, curiously, and after a moment, the door swung inward.

For the first time in weeks, a grin split Fenris’s face. Isabela stood in the doorway, asmirk on her lips and her golden eyes glittering at their shock. He felt his heart sore with happiness just seeing her again, and his memories rushed through his head when their gazes met.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Hawke sighed, throwing her arms open, the women hugging tightly as they entered her suite. Fenris shut the door behind him as they separated and Isabela’s attention was drawn to him. Without much time to protest, she pulled him in for a hug as well, and he returned it awkwardly.

“Well, fancy seeing you here!” the pirate exclaimed, holding her hand out, offering them a seat on the sofa that sat in front of the hearth. She rounded the living space to sit in an armchair to their side. “Tell me everything!”

“Everything?” Fenris questioned. His mind went blank, and Isabela waved her hand in front of her.

“Where are my manners?” She stood up, whizzing around the room until she had returned with a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, placing them on the table in front of them. One thing Fenris noticed was that Isabela was decked out in some of the most luxurious threads he ever thought he would see her in. She wore a tan leather corset over a loose white blouse, and most surprisingly, real pants that tucked into her old long boots. But what surprised him the most about her was the gaudy hat sitting atop her head, wide brim and a large feather sticking out of it. “Well, maybe I should tell you how I got here.”

Hawke reached for one of the glasses and poured herself some of the liquor. “Yes, that might be necessary. What with us trying to stay hidden and all.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she mused, sitting back in the chair, holding off on the whiskey for now. “After what you pulled in Perivantium, people have been talking. Reached all the way to Antiva where I happened to be.”

Fenris nodded, expecting as much. “I suppose we should be calling you Captain Isabela now.”

She shook her head, face becoming coy. “No, that’s _Admiral_ Isabela now. I’ve joined the Raiders.” She took the hat off of her head, setting it on her lap, fingers toying with the feather. “So, yes, I know as much as Perivantium, what happened after that?”

Fenris began at the beginning, recalling the entire tale up until that point. The whiskey was flowing, Hawke and Isabela having most of it. For a moment, even as he was telling his story, he began to forget some of the seriousness of the situation. Just Isabela’s presence allowed him to remember Kirkwall, even though it was filled with some truly bad times. But being here was just enough to alleviate some of the stress he didn’t even know was there.

“So, you mentioned something about a surprise?” Fenris asked once he had finished the story.

“Oh, yes,” Isabela said, excitement in her eyes barely contained as she smiled. “Well, I’ve managed to-” She was cut off by seemingly nothing, the room going silent as she listened. Fenris heard it, too, a pair of voices muffled just beyond the door. Isabela’s face fell. “Actually, um…”

Hawke and Fenris turned around as the door opened, two new bodies entering the room. Fenris felt his face and ears flare up with rage seeing _them,_ not so much the both of them, but _him_ of all people.

“Make that two surprises,” Isabela said through gritted teeth.

Anders and Merrill stood dead still in the doorway, eyes wide as they stared at Fenris. They remained unmoving as he turned back to Isabela, his eyes blazing with anger. He stood up from his seat instantly, feeling himself sway only slightly from the whiskey.

“What the hell is this?!” he demanded, gesturing to the two mages in the door. Hawke had stood up beside him, a hand on his shoulder which he ignored. Isabela remained sitting, holding up her hands in defence.

“I can explain,” she muttered, avoiding eye contact with him.

“What’s to explain?” he spat. “You bring this _blood mage_ and this-“ he sputtered, his head whipping back and forth between the two of them. “Shit, I’m not even worried about her! But you brought this abomination, this fucking _madman_!”

Anders hadn’t said a word. He and Merrill had stood perfectly still, their faces draining of all colour. Fenris felt betrayed, staring at them with all the hatred in his eyes. Of course they had come along. Of course they were wrapped up in this, there was no way they couldn’t be. All those bloody years in Kirkwall.

Isabela just rolled her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, why don’t you say it all louder, I don’t think the entire Imperium heard you.”

He wanted to mutter something along the lines of that not mattering considering where they were, but he remained quiet. Merrill shut the door behind them, although she and Anders didn’t move from where they stood. Isabela motioned for them to come closer, but they refused.

“How exactly were you going to explain this one to him, Isabela?” Anders asked, his back pressed against the door.

Her eyes flashed over to Fenris. “Alright, you, sit down, you two, come over here.” She stared him down until she did as she asked. Anders and Merrill shuffled over to take seats closer to Isabela. Fenris just glared at them, only taking in for a second that Hawke was doing the same to Anders. He still looked pale, avoiding their daggers, looking to Isabela.

“My time for a story, if you promise to shut up when I tell it,” Isabela said threateningly.

He glanced over to her, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off the other two. “Fine,” he said reluctantly.

“Good.” Isabela poured herself a very full glass of whiskey, and took a large sip of it, the room silent. “I’ll start at the beginning, then.”

\--

“Five fucking sovereigns? Are you mad?”

Isabela glared straight into the dock master’s eyes, her neck beginning to flare up with heat. “What happened to Kirkwall? Is it suddenly too good for the likes of us simple merchants?”

The man rolled his eyes at her, sighing as he rubbed at his temples. “Please, Isabela, I’m not stupid.”

Putting her hands on her hips, Isabela cocked her head to the side. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“What? Oh, please, who around here don’t you know?”

In a flash, the pirate had one dagger pulled from her back, resting at the dock master’s neck, the sharp end digging in just enough to break the skin, leaving a tiny red cut blooming around the steel. He tensed up immediately, hands held up in surrender.

“Now is five sovereigns worth dying over?” she growled. The man’s silence was her answer. She withdrew the blade, sticking it back in its holster. “I believe I’ll pay the regular rate for docking my ship here. That, and stop acting like we know each other.” She withdrew a single gold coin and tossed it at the man who caught it with one hand, the other holding his neck. The pirate smirked before turning back to her ship. “Well, it’s been a shit day for you, I can tell.”

She signalled to the men standing on the deck who had watched the entire exchange. Immediately they began taking ropes, scaling down the sides of the ship ready to dock. She stalked off, leaving them to it, confident in their skill and discretion. They knew how long they were staying.

Back in Kirkwall. Fate really was a cruel thing. As soon as she had left it, she was back again, and she wanted to be angry about it, but the sight of the familiar docks was a welcome one indeed. Her feet knew exactly where to go, leaving her eyes to wander. It had only been ten months since she walked these very docks, and back then it was as normal as a day could get. She watched all the vendors selling their wares – mostly fish – with fascination. It was almost as if what had happened those ten months ago never did. But of course it wasn’t true. As she made her way closer inland, past the old Qunari compound, still closed off for so long, the effects of what had transpired etched in time forever.

Lowtown still looked terrible, but the destruction caused by the war was clear. The tall stone buildings were chipped away at, likely from blasts of magical force, from the mages or otherwise. She couldn’t imagine what the Gallows looked like, that terrifying night playing in her memory. The tasteless statues of slaves coming to life under the Knight-Commander’s command was not a sight she felt could ever be topped anytime soon. As her thoughts strung along one to another, her thoughts came to Hawke and her heart began to feel strangely heavy. As much as each sight and sound in Lowtown was triggering a memory from her years spent there, it felt oddly foreign to be there alone. Knowing the last time she saw Hawke was just after they fled the city, she never thought she would actually be missing anyone. Suddenly Kirkwall seemed very empty.

Soon enough she was where she needed to be. Her mood had brightened enough to anticipate who she had came to the city to see anyway. She pushed open the doors to the Hanged Man, the smell of its sludgy stew and piss ale hitting her nose like the best welcome home she had ever felt. It nearly rivalled the feeling of the sea spray on her face as her ship cut through a storm. Nearly. As she walked in, a sway in her hips and her chin held up high, all eyes were on her. For a second there was silence, but towards the back of the pub, she heard someone bellow drunkenly, “ISABELA!”

The rest of the bar patrons joined in with the reverie, a great deal of them celebrating her return. She grinned widely, taking off her hat and bowing to greet them back. She put it back on her head as she walked over towards the bar, Corff the bartender having not moved in all the time she knew him.

“Captain,” he greeted as she leaned on the counter.

“It’s Admiral now,” she corrected as he began to pour her whiskey.

“Oh,” he said mockingly. “Sorry, Admiral Isabela. Is that the promotion you get when you wear that abomination on your head?”

Her mouth dropped open, pretending to be offended. “A real pirate needs to look a bit more decadent than you’ve ever seen me.”

“Right, well,” Corff mumbled, sliding her the drink, “I suppose I just wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Isabela smirked as she swallowed the whiskey. She was hoping her men remembered to restock the ship’s alcohol supply; before landing they had been running dangerously low, and the last thing she needed was an angry, sober crew. Turning her attention back to Corff, she spun the empty cup in a circle on the bar. “So I take Varric is still kicking around here, right?”

“Nope,” he answered, refilling her whiskey.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Once you lot ran out of town, he came back for a bit, but he left ‘bout a month ago. I take it you were expecting him to be here?”

“Well, yes…” Isabela stared into her drink, glaring at it. What had he left again for? She knew he wouldn’t have said where he was going to Corff, or if he had, it would be a lie. “Shit, well, I guess I’ll have to track him down myself.”

The bartender shrugged as Isabela drank her drink once again. Suddenly she felt impatient, itching to get back on her feet and begin looking for him. Not that she would find him in Kirkwall, but maybe there was someone else she could find. She turned away from the bar and began to swerve through the crowds towards the door.

“You owe me for two, Isabela!” Corff called after her, and she waved him off, standing back out in the Lowtown streets. She felt unreasonably angry. How dare Varric disappear on her, his last letter to her was only a couple of months ago, and he seemed perfectly content to remain in Kirkwall should she happen to stop by. As irritated as she was, she was willing to believe that there was more to the story. Eventually a letter would appear in her hands, explaining his absence. Still, now she was in Kirkwall when she could be anywhere else in the world. She pursed her lips together, trying to think of what to do next.

She hung a right, travelling down the steps into the old slums, thinking of two other options she had while she was there. The alienage was looking particularly dusty and poverty-stricken as she entered the small circle of its centre. The large tree in the middle of it was the only redeeming quality it had, painted and strung with colourful lights. She stepped carefully, seeing the place mostly empty, but feeling the eyes of every elf staring at the single shemlen like herself strolling through it. She went to the only door she had ever cared to enter in the area, knocking three times.

Hearing a scuffle beyond the door, a small voice spoke up.

“Just a minute, I- oh, dear…”

“It’s me, Merrill,” Isabela said, hopefully loud enough to get through the thick wood. She heard the sounds of locks being shifted and unclasped and the door swung inward. The little Dalish stood in the doorframe, her green eyes wider than Isabela had ever seen them. Suddenly her arms were around her, and Isabela was forced into an awkward hug, Merrill’s head against her bust, thin arms gripping her tightly.

“It’s so good to see you!” the elf exclaimed, a laugh escaping her. She pulled away, face flushed with excitement. “What brings you back in Kirkwall? You’re not stranded again, are you? No, of course not, but that’s a lovely hat!”

Isabela held Merrill’s hands in hers, smiling as she babbled. “I came to see you, Kitten,” she said gleefully, and it wasn’t entirely untrue. Still, Merrill suspected otherwise when her smile went flat and one eyebrow raised.

“Are you sure? Oh, where are my manners, come in.”

Isabela walked in, closing the door behind her, the familiar house still being familiarly messy.

“I would have cleaned, but I had no idea you, or anyone else would be coming.”

“It’s quite alright. You should see my ship.” Isabela took a seat on a stool sat in front of the hearth, just embers burning inside it. Merrill took the seat next to her, staring at her intently.

“You have a ship!” Merrill grinned, playing with the fabric of her dress. She wore the clothes of the city elves now, but still decorated with her shawl and a few trinkets from her clan. “So, why are you really here?”

Isabela sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Merrill, don’t think I wasn’t going to come by!” She crossed her arms, giving her a tricky look. “Actually, what I did come here for is sort of big.”

Merrill studied her with curious eyes, and Isabela bit her bottom lip, scratching the side of her neck. “I… Heard some news.”

The elf’s face fell.

“It’s not bad news, it’s just big news. I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything of what’s happened in Tevinter recently.”

This Merrill wasn’t expecting. “No? What’s happening there?”

“It’s Fenris. He’s leading some sort of slave uprising.”

Isabela began to tell Merrill everything she had heard in passing from other sailing merchants. The border city Perivantium had been sacked completely in a single night, being lead by one particular elf marked by peculiar glowing tattoos. Obviously Isabela knew that description, and immediately she sought more information. For whatever reason, she felt compelled to find him, and to do something, to offer help, anything, or at least just see if the tales were true. She had been in Southern Antiva at the time, closer to Kirkwall than anything, and suddenly it was in her head to get the old gang back together and help their friend. Of course there was a lot more to it than that, as surely those slain magisters had shitloads of money. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that Fenris’s actions in the Imperium were leading to something huge. Maybe she was just crazy, but there was something shifting in the air, and she didn’t know what it would bring, but things were about to change quickly.

Merrill was frowning, stroking her chin just under her lip, staring into the dying embers. “And so you want help from me?”

She nodded, staring at Merrill. “I wanted to find Varric at first, because obviously he would know more, but he’s also gone. Do you know what happened to him?”

“I don’t.” Merrill’s face grew sad. “Not really, anyway. He was being questioned by some people from the Chantry in Orlais, but I don’t know any more than that.”

Isabela swallowed, and bowed her head. “I suppose we’ll hear from him at some point. I’m sure he could have lied his way out of whatever they wanted.”

“So what do we do?”

With a sigh, the pirate removed her hat, placing it on her lap and ruffling the big feather that stuck out of it. “I was hoping Aveline might come along, too, but I doubt she’d want to leave her position. It's not fair to drag her along, really."

“She’s pregnant,” Merrill added.

“No shit! Well, I have to at least go and see her.”

Isabela’s visit with Aveline lasted until late in the evening when she was unexpectedly invited to dinner with her and Donnic. She sat at the table awkwardly for a while, until she and the guard captain were back at each other’s throats with playful jabs. Isabela couldn’t see much in the way of Aveline being pregnant; she must have just found out. At least she and Merrill still spoke. When the pirate spoke of Fenris, Aveline’s expression hardened, but she seemed to swell with pride.

“That sounds incredible. I wish I could come along.”

“You know, I wasn’t even going to ask you.” Isabela sipped on her glass of wine, setting down her fork on the cleaned plate. It tasted sweet, and it occurred to her that Aveline’s taste absolutely pointed towards lighter wines. “I figured you wouldn’t want to leave your life here. You were the only one of us who actually made one.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Hawke had an entire estate.”

Isabela’s face turned downcast at the mention of Hawke. In all her talk of Fenris that afternoon, she hadn’t once thought of Hawke. Nobody knew where she went, but once she thought about it, she assumed she was still with him. The only hole in the story was that if she was with him, she had to have been taking some of the glory. The stories wouldn’t have been about the tattooed elf freeing the slaves, it would be about Fenris and his mage girlfriend. The fact that she had not even heard her mentioned tipped her off that maybe they had separated at some point.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you anything about Varric,” Aveline said gravely. “He was just gone suddenly. Taken by some people in the Chantry, wanting to know about Hawke’s involvement in the war, no doubt.”

Isabela shrugged. “I’m sure he was able to get away from them. Or will.”

“Most likely.”

With a sad smile, the pirate began to go through their list of friends in her head. Varric was gone, Merrill had agreed to come with her, Aveline was staying, and so that left… “What about Anders?”

The captain’s eyes became stony. “I don’t know. All I know is he went with the mages who fled Kirkwall.”

Isabela nodded. She didn’t want to linger on the topic for long, knowing how Aveline felt about it. The fact that Anders had still been alive by the time they left the city was something she knew the captain resented. She had insisted they stay alongside the Knight-Commander, only to witness firsthand the insanity that later ensued. But to let Anders live after all that, she wondered just how much Aveline loved Hawke to still love her now. Now that it had been brought up, she wondered about him. After ten months, she wondered if it was even possible he was still alive. As far as she knew, Justice may have just killed him.

Aveline had offered her a place to stay the night, but Isabela declined, saying she had a room at the Hanged Man. After arriving back at the bar, she began to plan out just what she was going to do.

—

Of all the places Isabela could have been in her week on land, she really did not want to be near Sundermount. Of all the places she wanted to have been in her entire life, this was one of the last. But here she was with Merrill, hiking through the wilds surrounding the Free Marches talking to a group of apostates. Merrill still knew the area like the back of her hand, and apparently she had been out in the wilds since the war started; the apostates they found seemed to know her. They scowled at her when she asked about Anders, telling her that he was somewhere in the forest.

Unexpectedly it seemed that Anders wasn’t too welcome among apostate groups. The ones that remained in the Free Marches didn’t want anything to do with him. They were angry at him for starting the war, for driving them out of the city, and for forcing them and every other mage into a life of being hunted by rogue Templars. The mages practically spat on his name, but they did offer Merrill where he might have been. He had last been seen near a pond to the East, but that had been months ago. It was better than nothing.

They hiked for what seemed like hours, and once she was ready to give up, Merrill pointed out the clearing ahead of them. Sure enough, the pond the apostates mentioned was there, and they agreed to set up camp and give up on Anders if he wasn’t there. At least for the day. But when the sun began to set, the telltale pale blue glowing gave him away.

Merrill was the first to approach the mouth of the small cave that he had tucked himself into, blue flickering around it. As they drew closer, they could hear a conversation.

“Anders?” Merrill called meekly, but she was not heard.

The argument inside the cave was one-sided, and pitiful to hear. Anders’ voice was there, timid and shaking being wracked with sobs. Then came Justice’s voice, powerful and commanding, yet muted enough to not attract other attention. Merrill was knelt in front of the cave, Isabela standing just behind her. Anders’ body was barely visible, but he was curled up on the floor, back facing them.

“Please, just let me sleep,” Anders pleaded. His body began to crackle as the spirit’s presence burst through him.

“You abandoned them!” Justice snarled. Isabela had heard Justice sound angry, (he was always angry) but this time, there was more to the voice. Justice sounded absolutely malicious.

“Just let. Me. Die. Is that justice enough?” It was the only sound of defiance in his voice before he yelped in pain as Justice burst through again.

“The mages still suffer!”

Isabela had heard just about enough. Pushing Merrill out of the way as politely as she could, she stepped into the cave. She rolled Anders over and saw his face. It almost made her falter. His beard had grown out, for one, but his eyes, staring up at her terrified, were bloodshot and rimmed with dark purple. His cheeks were sunken in, entire face creased with worry lines. Snapping out of her shock, she hauled him out of the cave, feeling him surprisingly light as he was hunched over, one arm around her shoulders. She let go of him, but he could not stand, so she awkwardly let him sit down on the ground. He was staring at her, but his blank eyes showed he was not there. He could not recognize her, and if anything, thought she was about to kill him.

“Merrill, get him some water!” Isabela barked over her shoulder, trying to support the mage from falling over. From what she could see, his belt was loose around him, his bony hands trembling. He smelled of the dirt that was smeared on his face. Isabela was focused on his eyes, though, trying to see if he was still in there. His entire body was trembling and she felt her insides clenching.

“Anders,” she said, almost a whisper, seeing if just saying his name would bring him to her. Justice had been silent since she dragged him out into the dying sunlight, and she wondered just when she would be greeted with him.

Merrill was back beside them, holding a canteen of water which she offered to Anders. She tipped it back for him as he began to gulp it down. He breathed deeply after, still not saying a word as he stared at Isabela. Merrill also had a handful of elfroot, her attention focused on tears in his robe mottled with dried blood, but Isabela pulled a piece of bread from her pack instead. At the sight of food, Anders took it, biting into the bread with vigour, clearly starving. They sat in silence, letting him eat in peace. He finished the bread, afterwards staring at his hands, watching his fingers trembling just a little less than they had been. He turned his head slowly to Isabela, eyes looking just as vacant as they were.

“It’s me, Isabela,” she said gently. “You remember me, Anders.”

He didn’t, because his skin began to split with the blue light. Before Justice took over him, Isabela heard him whimper. She never knew the spirit to actually hurt him, but soon he lurched forward, hands hitting the ground to stop himself from falling on his face.

“Anders is gone!” the voice bellowed. Before Isabela could do anything, Merrill was knelt in front of him.

“I think I can help him,” she said, eyes focused on him. The blue faded away and Anders kept his head down, beginning to weep.

“How, Merrill?” Isabela asked breathless. She was tempted to pull out a dagger and run it along the man’s throat. That was the only way to relieve his suffering at this point.

“We helped Feynriel, didn’t we?”

She was confused. “What do you mean?”

Merrill sat down in front of Anders, offering a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him. “The Keeper was able to send us into the Fade to kill the demon troubling Feynriel. I might be able to do something about Justice.”

“Then why haven’t you done that before? Years ago?”

“Isabela, it’s killing him!” Merrill tilted Anders’ head up to look into his eyes. Her thumb brushing against his cheek seemed to soothe him, his sobs calming as she remained unblinking. His brown eyes began to focus.

“Merrill,” he breathed, but that was it.

“How can you enter the Fade?” Isabela questioned, rubbing at her eyes.

“With blood magic,” she mumbled sadly. Isabela knew the elf had sworn off blood magic ever since the Keeper had died defending her from it.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Merrill licked her lips and looked up at Isabela. “Here, get him to lie down.” Anders was eased onto his back, eyes beginning to dart back and forth. Merrill held her hands over his face, hands glowing with a green light. She began to mumble something in Elvish, and his eyelids slowly closed when she withdrew them.

“You have to promise me something,” Merrill said. “No matter what you hear from him, do not touch him. It will be painful for him, and… I can’t even say if he’ll live. If he dies, I’ll wake up, and there’s nothing we can do.”

Isabela nodded. “And I take it don’t wake you up, either?”

“No. You won’t be able to. Just watch out for us.” She looked down at Anders, sleeping peacefully, but his eyes were squeezed shut. Merrill withdrew a dagger from her belt. “And to answer your question, no, I couldn’t do this before. This is life and death. Spirits aren’t supposed to kill their hosts.”

Isabela had no choice but to accept what Merrill said, only able to wince as the elf dragged the dagger across her wrist, the blood oozing from the wound and staining the ground below her. Merrill began to chant in Elvish once again, her body slumping as she did, and suddenly on the last word, she fell backwards onto her back.

Having no choice but to sit in front of the two, Isabela waited. The sun had set, a bright nearly full moon providing light above them. Her eyes shifted between Anders’ face, and the still bleeding cut on Merrill’s arm. She wondered if she should bandage it up, but she didn’t want to risk waking her up. She began to build a fire, always glancing back at the sleeping pair. When the flames were roaring, she took out the other food she had stored in her pack, taking a drink of whiskey to take the edge off. Afterwards, she still watched them, seeing no sign of movement from either body. They may as well have been dead. She draped a blanket she had brought in her pack around her shoulders when she began to feel a chill in the air.

Her eyes were starting to droop closed when Anders began to stir. He made some fussing noises, speaking some unintelligible words. Remembering what Merrill said, she remained still, just watching Anders as his stirring began to grow more violent. Brow creased with worry, Isabela hugged her knees to stop herself from acting rashly.

She was finally able to look away, to make sure they were still alone, when he let out a blood-curdling scream of agony. She watched him thrash on the ground, eyes bulging open, his skin splitting from the blue cracks. Isabela kept still, but she was standing now, scanning around the clearing to be sure he hadn’t attracted any attention. The water in the pond was still. She watched Anders now, laying back again, eyes open but blank, a trail of blood coming from his mouth. She so badly wanted to do something, but she was stuck, bound by Merrill’s instructions to stay still.

In that moment, Merrill bolted upward, breath laboured. Her immediate reaction was to look down at Anders. She touched the blood trailing down his chin, wiping it away with her sleeve. She looked up to Isabela, her tiny frame shaking with weakness.

“I think it worked.”

Isabela swallowed and knelt down beside Merrill who was rubbing her eyes.

“You should sleep,” she said, and Isabela shook her head.

“No, I’m fine, I promise.”

The elf didn’t protest as she began to lie down again. She was back asleep in an instant, and Isabela knew it was going to be a long night ahead of her.

\--

She didn't remember drifting off, but Merrill was nudging her awake. Her eyes tore open when she realized the sun was now up, painting the sky in strokes of orange and magenta. She palmed her eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them and assessing the situation. She had slept sitting up on the stump next to the dead fire pit, and her back was punishing her for it. She straightened out, covering her mouth as she couldn't stop herself from yawning. Merrill just smiled.

"We're okay, I took over the watch in the middle of the night to let you sleep."

Isabela cocked an eyebrow. The elf looked exhausted from last night's trial. Reminded of that, she looked over to see Anders' sleeping body still on the ground, unmoved.

"He's okay, for now," Merrill sighed. "But the only thing we can do is let him sleep. He might not wake up for a while."

And so the day went on, just the two of them in the clearing. Isabela went off to trap a rabbit for a bit more to eat, boiling it with some of the vegetables she brought with her into a stew. Whatever they could cook up out here was better than whatever the Hanged Man had to offer. The rest of the day was spent playing cards and checking Anders' pulse in between games. It wasn't until late afternoon that he began to show any signs of waking up.

Merrill noticed it first, seeing him moving behind Isabela. They jumped up to kneel over him, watching his eyelids flutter open and his mouth draw a deep breath. His eyes were no longer blank, looking between Isabela and Merrill, finally recognizing them. His chapped lips parted when he spoke, voice still small. "What are you doing here?"

Isabela chuckled. "That's the thanks we get? Do you know where you are?"

The mage sat up slowly, still shaking from weakness, placing his hands on his raised knees. "No. I feel... I don't know what this feeling is."

"We managed to cut Justice free from you," Merrill said. "That's why you feel so empty inside."

Isabela suppressed a smile at the sentiment, but Anders just looked confused, staring ahead at the ground. "Justice is gone?"

"Yes," Isabela said. "Or, at least that's what Merrill tried to do."

"How did you?" Anders trailed off as his head whipped around to look at Merrill, his eyes travelling to her bandaged wrist. "No, you didn't."

"It was the only way, Anders," the elf protested, her opposite hand grasping her wrist instinctively.

"And Justice is gone!" Anders put a hand to his chest, as if trying to feel for the spirit still in him. "Why would you do this?"

"Because he was killing you, you dense prick!" Isabela snapped, but Anders didn't seem to be grasping it.

"You used blood magic to sever a spirit from me. You know we were one being, right? So you just took away a chunk of me!" There was a rage in his eyes and Isabela had backed away, her own eyes narrowed, ready to literally slap some sense into him if she had to.

"Clearly you're still delirious, but you seem like the real Anders to me." She sat down on the ground while Merrill went to get him some of the leftover stew that was still keeping warm over the embers. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Anders was glaring at her, but his expression began to soften, eventually turning sad. "The other Circle mages turning me away. They think I'm crazy."

"They aren't far off," Isabela mumbled, but then she began to remember. "Wait, we met them yesterday. They said they ran you off months ago."

He hesitated to answer. "It seems colder from then." He bit on his chapped lip, wondering if he should beg the next question. "What month is it?"

"Beginning of Kingsway," she answered solemnly.

"I remember the summer," he mumbled, trailing off. He didn't say anything after that.

Merrill returned with a bowl filled with stew and a spoon which he took gratefully. He didn't wolf it down as ferociously as he did the bread from last night, instead taking full but steady spoonfuls.

"It's only flashes after that." His brow was creased in concentration as he sipped on the spoon. "Just running blindly through the woods."

He didn't say anything else as he continued to eat, mentally trying to piece together what had happened in the past few months. After a long silence, he seemed to have another thought. "You said Justice was killing me."

"That's what it looked like."

Merrill nodded in agreement and Anders smiled grimly. "I suppose he was right. I killed all those people at the Chantry, it was only justice. Irony."

Isabela felt her chest clench tightly, not wanting to relive the memory. Once again her mind returned to the thought of why Hawke didn't just put him out of his misery. But she supposed now with Justice gone, maybe he could be.

"I suppose I should thank you if what you did really saved my life. Not sure who else would thank you." His expression turned friendly for only a second as he put his bowl down, but then he looked back at Isabela with a frown. "Wait, why are you two even here in the first place?"

"Right..." Isabela had almost forgotten her reason, but right as she remembered it, she wasn't sure why she would even bother. "How do you feel about going to Tevinter?"

He blinked, waiting for her real answer. With a sigh, Isabela explained a little further.

"Merrill is joining my crew and we're going to Tevinter to find Fenris."

Anders frowned at the mention of the elf. "And you came to find me to help you find _him_. Exactly how was that supposed to work? And what's he doing there?"

" _He's_ caused a slave uprising and killing magisters all over the country."

He didn't believe her, frail shoulders shaking with laughter. "Yes, with all his charisma as a leader."

Isabela crossed her arms and glared at him. She really was wondering why she thought it was a good idea to go after him. "It's the truth. Merchants have been to Perivantium and it's been completely sacked."

"Well, if you're so sure it's true, then I wish you good luck."

She scoffed, standing up beside him and began to pace around. Merrill had been quiet the entire time, eyes fixed on the pirate.

"I'm sorry, did we not just save you from what was obviously going to be a slow, painful death?"

Anders sighed with defeat, brushing his fingers through his hair. "Let me put it this way, he hates me. What good would I be to Fenris anyhow? I'm assuming he's killing every mage in the Imperium for daring to exist."

"He isn't some rabid dog who will attack you on sight!" Isabela spat. "Plus, Hawke is with him." It was only a guess, but Anders' face seemed to perk up.

"She is?"

"So I've heard." Her gaze flickered over to Merrill's, silently telling her to not say a word. "The tattooed elf and his mysterious woman blazing across the Imperium killing slave masters! Truly a romantic story."

Anders was still skeptical, but the promise of seeing Hawke seemed to put things in a different perspective. If he was stilling pining over her, however, Isabela might have to beat him once and for all. It didn't seem that way when he shook the idea off once again.

"I'm sorry, Isabela, but I respectfully refuse. I'm still thankful for what you and Merrill did, but I don't think I'll be much good to you."

She was afraid of that. At this point, she was going to be leaving Kirkwall rather empty-handed. She arrived, hoping to leave with Varric, Aveline and Merrill, and so far, one out of three was not going to cut it. Anders looked ready to stand when she instead made a quick decision. Getting up, she drew her blade from her back, pointing the end at his chin in a flash of steel. Merrill's eyes widened and she moved to do something, but Isabela's warning glance kept her still. She then looked down at Anders, staring at her in disbelief.

"Right then, maybe I'll just take you as my prisoner."

He was shocked, the whites of his eyes standing out starkly against the darkness around them. "You're not serious, are you?"

"Try it," she spat, letting the tip of her blade touch the underside of his chin.

"You just saved me, why would you kill me?"

"I never said I'd kill you." Isabela relaxed her ar slightly to take the steel off his chin, still keeping it pointed at him. "But honestly Anders, what else are you going to do? The other mages aren't exactly yearning to hoist you up over their heads in a victory parade because you freed them. And everyone else in Thedas wants to tear you apart for what you did, so why not come with me where you _won't_ be killed under my watch, and help out people who really need it?"

She stared him down as he remained looking defiant. He yielded, taking her words into consideration. If he were to see any sense, he would go with her. She was willing to do what she said and protect him if anyone they came across recognized him and wished him harm. Isabela still considered him her friend after all this time, and not that any of their other friends knew it, they went further back than she did with anyone else she still knew. Of course, that was from her days at the Pearl, but their interactions weren't as shallow as most were in that place. Mentally slapping herself, Isabela focused back on Anders still sitting on the ground, wondering why she had even thought of that in a time like now.

" _Fine_ ," the mage growled. "Only if you'll stop Fenris from ripping my heart out the instant he sees me."

Isabela glared. "That's a back-handed thanks." She withdrew her dagger, slipping it back into its holster. "But I'll accept it. Welcome aboard the crew of The Impaler."

He eyed her curiously. "The Impaler? Seriously?"

"Well, nobody wanted The Penetrator, surprisingly. It was 'too disgusting', or whatever. I think the sailors would have loved it." Isabela smiled, offering him a hand. He grasped it, giving a surprisingly firm shake, and then she hauled him up to his feet. Anders faltered only slightly, wobbling on his feet as he regained his balance. It was when he stood that Isabela could really see just how weak he had become. She always suspected he wore many layers to make up for a rather willowy frame, if his long nights without much food and sleep at his clinic had anything to do with that. But now she saw his robes hanging loosely around him, despite the layers. His face looked more gaunt than ever, and his almost bruised appearance didn't help him in that regard. His hands still shook as he stood, and as Isabela gave him a look up and down, her brow knitted in concern. He really would have died out here, and it would have been soon.

"Sorry to interrupt, but," Merrill began, stepping in beside Isabela, "what are we going to do when we get to Tevinter?"

"Ah," the pirate began, but trailed off.

"You don't even have a plan?" Anders questioned.

"Well, what else should we do? We show up, find Fenris and Hawke, start killing magisters!"

The two mages looked at her skeptically. "It's just going to go that way, is it?"

She sighed, frustrated. "Look, it's hard to say what we'll do until we get there and understand exactly what's going on. Right now, we need to actually get to Tevinter. I say when we leave, we dock in Qarinus, that's right in the northeast. We get our bearings, then we find out where Fenris is. I doubt he'll be that far by the time we get there."

Merrill nodded. "That sounds good to me."

"Good," Isabela said. "Besides, I am your Captain now."

"Aye aye, Captain," Anders sighed begrudgingly. "So when do we leave?"

"I'm docked in Kirkwall for another four nights, staying at the Hanged Man." She looked at Anders whose expression was creased with worry. "You can stay with me in my room for the time being."

A slight flush rose to his face, but it was good to just see some colour in his face that wasn't so dark. "I can't go back to Kirkwall!" he exclaimed. "You said yourself everyone wants to rip me apart."

"I also said you won't be killed under my watch," she reassured, and she felt a swell in her chest. Isabela really did feel pity for Anders, and the protective streak she had suddenly formed was puzzling to say the least. "Just stay with me for the next few days while my crew and I restock the ship for the journey. And keep your face covered, maybe, that beard does some nice things for you. You need to recover a bit before you're out at sea."

Anders reluctantly agreed and they began to pack up. Inside the cave they had found him in was his staff, still intact, but Isabela insisted she keep it wrapped up in blankets and bedrolls once they were near the city. A lot had changed since Anders was there, when the Chantry was still there. For one, nowhere in the city could a mage be found. All boat activity between the Gallows and the mainland had ceased, leaving the deserted area to degrade and decay. The whole city, while appearing to have gotten back to normal, was filled with fear. Criminals prowled the streets bold as they ever were, taking advantage of the chaos that still echoed. The Coterie thrived at this time, and unfortunately so did slavers preying on the homeless. But this was the whole world now, and no city was safe. Apostates all congregated out in the wilds, but there were always stories of them storming areas of a city desperate for food and proper shelter. They didn't usually fare well.

It wasn't just the mages, Isabela had told Anders. Many of the Templars were cutting ties with the Chantry, going out on their own to kill apostates without anyone to boss them around. It was complete open warfare between the mages and rogue Templars without any hope of order. All it seemed to be doing was killing people on either side, and with the Chantry unable to intervene, it looked like there was no end in sight until every single last Templar and mage was dead.

\--

"How do you feel?" Isabela asked as Anders ruffled his wet hair with a towel. He had changed into the fresh clothes she bought for him in Lowtown, his skin pink from the bath now free of dirt and blood. He was clean shaven (much to her disappointment) and the dark circles around his eyes were starting to lighten. He still looked sallow, skin looking stretched tight over his face, and he was still devouring any food placed in front of him. He was looking down at the floor, expression unreadable.

"It's strange," he mumbled. "It's like I can't remember being just me."

She sat down on the bed next to him as he pulled his hair back into its usual half ponytail. He gave her a sideways glance before he went on. "Justice was a part of me for so long. I could always feel him there, now there's just an empty space." He rubbed at his eyes, irritating them more and he sighed. "I just don't know what it feels like."

"Do you miss him at all? He was your friend, wasn't he?"

Anders shook his head. "He hasn't been my friend for a long time. He was corrupted once I took him into my body."

"Sounds like a lot of people I know."

If looks could kill, Isabela would have been stone dead when Anders glared at her. She laughed. "I'm sorry, it's a big deal for you. But you're a whole person again, Anders."

Anders held his elbows, still hunched over defensively. "It's nice to be able to think clearly again."

Giving him a pat on the shoulder, Isabela stood up from the bed. "Stay there, I'll get us some whiskey and bring Merrill in for some Wicked Grace."

That seemed to make him light up, finally smiling while straightening his back. His last sentence haunted her as she left for the bar, leaving her feeling chilled. All this time she had known him, had she really? Had she ever talked to just Anders without the influence of the spirit? She couldn't get his image out of her head when she managed to get him out of his robes, inspecting his various injuries, many of them left unattended for some time. He looked positively boney, the knobs of his spine and silhouettes of ribs peaking out from under his skin. She hoped he would recover enough strength to be able to handle gaining his sea legs once they were on board the ship. The last thing he needed was to be throwing up the food he so badly needed to keep down.

At least she had been right about that. For one of them, at least.

Two days after her ship left the docks of Kirkwall, and Merrill was still spending most of her time hunched over the edge of the ship. The green in her complexion was only starting to fade, and she still barely picked at pieces of bread at supper. When she was on the deck, her legs wobbled while the rest of the crew whizzed about around her. At least she was in good spirits, smiling weakly whenever Isabela asked how she was doing. She would get used to it eventually, but as the pirate once said, her people were not ready for the seas.

Anders had been holding out well, all the preserved meat on board for meals letting him build up muscle as he surprisingly helped out with what he could on board. Isabela offered each of them their own quarters, since the ship had a rather impressive accommodations that she had not yet used. They may have been the size of broom closets, but they were at least private. When Isabela wasn't out on the deck giving orders and steering her beloved ship, she spent the time with them in her quarters, mostly playing cards and going over plans for when they reached their destination. Decidedly the best course of action was to send a message to Fenris somehow. He was hard to miss, and give anyone enough coin and that message would reach him no problem. It took her a while to write the message, unsure of whether or not to include who was with her. She decided it was best not to.

The journey was refreshing for a change, the weather being mostly cooperative for the first week. They were sailing north to Rivain first, stopping for a single night and then heading back out the next morning. Isabela stood at the bow of the ship, arms rested on the wood surrounding her. There was a calm warm breeze blowing just barely moving the ship along. Few members of her crew were still on the deck preparing the drop the anchor for the night, the rest in the galley eating their suppers. She was enjoying the breeze in her hair, her hat remaining in her quarters for the time being. She loved the sound of the waves lapping up against the walls of the boat, the smell of sea salt as she inhaled deeply. The weather was getting warmer as they moved north, much to her delight.

Hearing footsteps behind her, Isabela just turned her head to see both Merrill and Anders coming up behind her, joining her on either side. For a long time they just enjoyed the view of the sunset to the west and the sights and sounds of the ocean. Anders was the first to break the silence.

"Looks a bit threatening out there," he said cautiously, gesturing to the sky which was flushed a deep crimson red.

Isabela just smiled. "On the contrary, Anders, it's 'Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky in morning, sailor's warning.' Tomorrow should be lovely."

"Oh."

"Who says that?" Merrill asked. After a week on the ship, her stomach had finally settled, allowing her to walk steadily on board.

She shrugged. "Don't know, but it's true as far as I've seen. Still, a good storm is always exciting."

Anders laughed beside her. "It could also kill us all."

"Only for the unprepared crew. These men know what they're doing." The conversation lulled between them again, watching the sky grow ever darker. Once the sun had set, the air began to grow cooler. Isabela could spend the entire night on the deck watching the sea.

"I wonder what Tevinter is going to look like," Merrill mused.

"It'll be a mess, I'm sure," Anders answered grimly. "Knowing how violent Fenris is? And he's inspiring an army?"

Isabela swatted his army lightly. "Come on, you might not have Justice anymore, but can't you see how horrible Tevinter is? Slaves are getting their justice right now."

Anders hated to agree, for after all this time he equated all things Tevinter with Fenris, bigoted against mages and bitter. Deep down, Isabela knew he did agree. He had already complained about not being there for the mages back home, but he had shut up quickly at Isabela's glares. _Think about it_ , she had said, _if this goes well you'll actually be making history._ Anders just grumbled that he already had made history as the crazed apostate that blew up the Kirkwall Chantry.

_A good bloody chance to redeem yourself, then._

Gazing at the horizon as the last of the light faded from the sky, the trio turned back to the quarters, prepared to play another game of Diamond Back. As their laughter echoed long into the night, Isabela was finally starting to get the sense of the togetherness she had felt long ago. Her small quarters with the two mages was far from the crowd in Varric's suite at the Hanged Man, but it was just enough to give her that little slice of what she really felt was home. In a way, she was looking forward to seeing Fenris again if it meant making that little slice just a bit bigger. And if that included Hawke, it might just be close to perfection.

\--

Fenris found himself calmed only by the feeling of Hawke’s fingers lightly stroking through his hair. He had managed to tear his eyes away from them, watching Isabela tell the entire story. She had quickly ceased to speak so stilted and frustrated once she got into the tale, and Fenris wondered how much of Varric had rubbed off on her. Anders and Merrill had relaxed somewhat, although they had remained silent throughout the entire story. Anders refused to look at anyone. If what she was saying was true, then he truly did have the two mages at his disposal. However, he wasn’t sure how much he wanted them. When Isabela had finished, she took the final swig of whiskey from her glass, her gaze moving from person to person. The room was quiet for a time before anyone said anything. Surprised at himself, it was Fenris.

“Well,” he mumbled. “I suppose I am not in a position to refuse.”

Isabela’s face lit up with a smile. “Good, then. Because these two are completely dedicated to your cause.”

He looked back at them, Merrill’s eyes now big with hope.

“Of course I am,” she peeped. Her attention turned to Hawke who had peeled herself away from Fenris, and the elf bounded into her arms, hugging her tightly. They exchanged proper greetings, but Fenris just turned back to the Admiral.

“Fine. I’ll take them on. But you’re in charge of them.”

Isabela raised her hands in an accepting gesture. “Even better.”

Merrill sat at Hawke’s other side now, but her attention was on Anders.

“You are lucky,” she said cooly.

“I know,” he agreed, looking anywhere but her eyes. “And I am yours, both of you.”

Fenris shook his head. “You answer to Isabela.”

“I suppose you want to hear about your good surprise now I take it.” Isabela stood from her seat, drawing the curtains closed on the night sky outside her window. “I don’t just have a ship. I have a fleet. That’s what being an Admiral is about.” She turned around to see Fenris’s shocked expression. “Right now? I have twenty ships under my command. Whenever you decide to sack this city, my men can easily take the ships owned by the masters here. You are going to need them if you ever hope to get to Minrathous.”

Fenris and Hawke looked at each other for a moment. “Thank you, Isabela,” Fenris said, with just a little strain in his voice.

“You’re welcome.” She turned back from the window, her eyes looking tired. She reached into one of the pouches on her belt, taking out a sovereign, flicking it towards them. Hawke caught it, spinning it in her fingers. “Get yourself a room and some alcohol.”

“The forces should be here tomorrow morning,” Fenris said, nearly forgetting that fact.

“Well, just the room, then,” Isabela said. “We’ll meet you at dawn.”

\--

Hawke lay awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling, her hands folded on her stomach. Fenris was deeply asleep beside her, but as the minutes passed by, she was unable to fall asleep. The only source of light was the window looking out over the docks, moonlight shining in. There was a tightness in her chest that had knotted up earlier that evening and would not unknot now. The thin blankets covering her had been thrown off, and she lay stiff as a board, her breathing slow but uneven. She felt it pointless to keep trying to sleep and sat up, sore from staying so still as long as she had. Swinging her legs over the bed, she reached for her cloak hanging from one of the hooks on the door and she put it on over her night clothes. Slipping her feet into her boots, she opened the door to the hallway and made her way to the tavern. She ordered a double shot of whiskey at the bar, placing her coppers on the counter and turning around to see the one person she did not want to see.

Anders was sitting slumped in his seat in the somewhat empty but quiet bar warmed by firelight. She gritted her teeth, but he didn’t notice her as she began to walk over to him. Putting her glass down on the table, he startled, looking up to meet her gaze, the colour draining from his face.

“We have some talking to do,” she snarled as she sat in the seat opposite him. Hawke wasn’t ready to do this now, or really ever, but the opportunity had presented itself.

“Hawke, I-“ he began to stammer, but she cut him off.

“No, I’m asking the questions.” She sipped the whiskey, not taking her eyes off of him. “I told you to scram, did I not? Look at me.”

Anders’ gaze had flickered away from her, but he forced himself to stare into her blazing blue eyes. “I did, Hawke. Isabela told you the story.”

“I don’t believe it, not for a second. What, Merrill just exorcised you? Just like that? Where was that seven years ago?”

“I can’t explain it!” Anders defended himself. “All that blood magic bullshit she does. I don’t even remember them being there until I woke up and they said Justice was gone.”

She was doing her best not to raise her voice, keeping it to an irritated whisper, but it was difficult. “Fine, if Justice really is gone, how do you really feel? If he’s not a part of you, I guess I’m just talking to a complete stranger right now.”

There was hurt in his eyes, and it was strange seeing him so submissive like this. Perhaps without Justice in his ear, he really was meek. “Maybe. I don’t remember feeling this way in a long time. But know it was always my rage that corrupted us the way it did.”

Hawke looked away for only a second, letting his words weigh on her. He continued.

“I do remember wanting to die. After Kirkwall, Justice was different. He was quiet for a while, satisfied with what we did, what _I_ did. I stayed with some of the mages, but they drove me away. Then he was louder than I’d ever heard him before. So many people in the Chantry died, so many who had nothing to do with any of it. And they needed justice for themselves.” His expression was unreadable, blank with pragmatism. “I can only remember pieces of it afterwards, but I remember Justice wanted to kill me. He tried to drive me mad so I’d starve to death, or killed myself, or something.”

It seemed realistic enough, and Hawke felt a strange twinge of guilt that she had not killed him when she had the chance. “You betrayed me,” she said plainly.

“I know,” he mumbled. “And now I would not blame Justice for any of it, for any of those innocent people’s lives. It was a mistake.”

She felt a smile tug at her lips. “You should have just asked. Had I not supported your cause the entire time?”

He looked utterly shocked. “You would have done it?”

Hawke just glanced down at her whiskey, taking another sip. “I don’t know. Elthina had a responsibility to the Circle and the Templars and she did nothing. Would have liked to have stirred up some shit at the very least. Maybe just write some obscene messages on the big doors. Didn’t need to go that far, really.”

Anders turned grave, scratching at the stubble on his jaw. “But I think I did.”

They were silent again, Hawke awkwardly drinking in front of him until the glass was empty.

“But I’m here now, and I want to help Fenris.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “You’re here because you have nowhere else to go. And because Isabela made you.”

He laced his fingers together on the table, scooting his chair in closer. “You think I ever supported slavery?”

She stopped herself from snorting, feeling the effects of the drink on her already. “You always said such horrible things to him.'Bluh, how did your master never kill you? Ever thought of killing yourself?’” She was laying the mockery on thick in her voice, and she didn’t stop even as Anders put his hand up in objection. “‘Bluh, not all mages are evil! Bluh, they should make slaves Tranquil so they don’t run away! Bluh, you sure about Fenris, love? He seems like,’ what was it again? ‘A wild dog more than a man?’”

“Hawke,” Anders said, more exhausted than irritated.

“Oh, the best one! ‘He’s let _one bad experience_ colour his whole world!’”

Hawke crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair, and Anders didn’t say a word. She had been wanting to get it out of her system for a while.

“Fine, I was a prick, what more do you want?”

“Not much, just want to guilt you into growing as a person.”

He rolled his eyes. “Maker, give me strength.”

“Just wait until tomorrow morning. If you don’t want Fenris glaring down on you for the rest of your time here, prove that you support _his_ cause. You don’t have to like him, because he is never going to like you. For what you said to each other in Kirkwall, for what you did, he would have loved to have torn your heart out your chest.”

He looked down again, taking in a shuddering breath.

“I could have killed you, you know. I wanted to, everyone else wanted to, but I didn’t. I just couldn’t. After all this time, you’re still my friend, Anders, and that’s why it’s so hard.”

Tears were stinging in her eyes, but she managed to hold them back, biting the inside of her cheek.

“And I hope you’ll still be mine,” Anders croaked. “I’ll fight like hell to prove it to you.”

Hawke couldn’t hold back the smile. She stood up from the table, feeling the whiskey swimming around her head, trying to hold her down. “The attack is at dawn. We should get some rest.”

He wordlessly agreed with her, and they went their separate ways down the hall of the inn. Hawke felt more ready to sleep, the knots in her chest loosened as she climbed back into bed. She slung an arm around Fenris, pulling herself close to him, making him rouse slightly. She didn’t think on Anders any more as sleep tugged at her eyelids and she drifted off.

\--

He stood at the front of the hoard, the screams of the living magisters echoing as the body piles were set alight. All around them there was fire, not a single building salvageable as the city burned. There was no point in the execution of some, leaving the surviving masters injured, unable to move, burning them alive. Armour soaked in blood, he walked beside his friends, but even in victory, he felt sick to his stomach. The crowd behind him roared with triumph as they followed, but they were muffled in his ears. The only thing he could smell and taste was the death left in their wake. With Hawke right beside him, limping on an injured leg, and Isabela to his left, he felt he was walking alone, being swallowed by blackness.

Necromenian was left in dust, and he was once again hailed as their saviour. They truly believed him Shartan, or Andraste, of their time. The more he accepted the title as Shartan’s soul, the more he remembered the truth of the matter.

Andraste failed.


	4. Qarinus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are reading this as it's posted, I've added a note at the beginning of the story regarding timeline events. It just makes it clear what times the events of Inquisition and everything else in this story take place, because it is different from canon. I'll post the amendment here as well:
> 
> This operates on the idea that the Conclave happened in 9:38, one year after the end of Dragon Age II, rather than in 9:41. Inquisition was said to have happened a year after the events of DA:II, but the math shows that's more like four years. I'm probably missing a piece of the puzzle, but there's plenty of canon-bending going on here anyway, so, just thought I'd let you know if there's any confusion.

The sky looked like it had shattered, licks of green lightning forever suspended up above. The scene had seemingly happened overnight. It scared her at first, but after a while it became mesmerizing. It just seemed to hover there, twirling and flickering, and not much else. Once she tore her eyes off of it, she ventured out into the woods, trapping rabbits for breakfast.

Silas had woken up when she returned to the campsite, stoking the new fire he built. He was quiet as Raenys skinned the rabbits, preparing a stew for them. The boy was exhausted from riding for days on end, but that day, they would make it to Marnas Pell. Four days ago Fenris and Hawke had lead the way to Necromenian. She would be lying if she claimed she wasn’t disappointed by the decision, leaving the cluster of cities south of Minrathous alone. She supposed it was only natural; there wasn’t enough power to split up. It just left the suddenly illusive Minrathous to continue doing whatever it was doing. It was a terrifying thought, to have heard _nothing_ from the capital. She was half expecting hellfire on Perivantium the instant it looked like the slaves had a chance. It only left room to worry, and she determined to find out whatever she could.

Raenys was used to riding horses, but Silas had never once in his life, or rather he only had when he was still an infant swaddled to her chest as she rode away from Minrathous. Now he was still close to her chest, sitting in front of her, the human-sized saddle just big enough for the two of them. He made plenty sounds of protest as he attempted to situate himself comfortably. She ran her fingers through his dark hair, kissing the top of his head as she began to guide the horse away from the now empty campsite.

“When will we get there?” he sighed, sounding as if he had been working for hours.

“Today,” she answered, leading the horse back to the path they had previously been taking.

“Are you sure? You said that yesterday.”

She chuckled to herself, lightly jabbing her heel into the horse’s side to pick up the pace. “I know. Had the roads been clear, we would have been.”

“So does that mean we won’t be getting there today?”

Raenys stayed silent, not wanting to promise her son anything further. Barring any sort of major interruption, it was only a few hours away. “Don’t be so negative! You can’t tell me you haven’t had at least some fun? There hasn’t been any fighting.”

He just sighed dramatically, leaning back slightly to rest against her chest. In a few short months, he would be fourteen, and he had seriously grown since the last time she checked. How did she not notice? He had always been so small for his age. “You’re so much like your father,” she mumbled to herself, and he didn’t say anything in response.

As much as she didn’t promise it, they had arrived at the gates of Marnas Pell by mid-afternoon. She paid for her horse at the stable and, holding Silas’s hand, they ventured into the city. If the other cities were in revolt, Marnas Pell was not a great example of that. At first glance, it looked much like Perivantium had, the bustling marketplace filled with masters and their slaves. But she knew better than to assume that it appeared the way it did. It didn’t take long before her slipping in and out of alleys lead her to something of truth.

Two slaves stood behind a building, looking at her, terrified when she rounded the corner. Silas held onto her hand tightly as she stopped, holding still to let the others know she meant no harm. When their postures relaxed, she moved forward, slowly, as if she were trying not to startle a deer. When she grew closer, she saw more of them. Two elven men, fresh bruises on their faces, and metal collars around their necks.

“What is it?” one of them asked. “We don’t have much time.”

“I’m from Perivantium,” she began, testing the waters, and they raised their eyebrows.

“Is it true?” the other asked, and she nodded. They looked at each other in awe.

“But he isn’t coming this way,” she said, her heart heavy. “They’re headed for Qarinus, to take power there.”

Sorrow returned to their faces, and Raenys felt a wave of guilt.

“We need to stay strong,” one of them mumbled.

“Perivantium was taken by its citizens alone,” she said, and they both nodded. “But I do need to know something. Is there any news from Minrathous?”

They went pale at the mention of the capital, and it seemed everything she feared was coming true.

“The bridge has been destroyed, my master said. Right after Perivantium, the Archon destroyed it to prevent anyone from escaping.”

“Or anyone coming in.”

Raenys was still, shocked at the news, her heart now beating hard. Silas gripped her hand even tighter. She nodded her head, turning around to leave them alone, jogging alongside her son back into the marketplace.

“What does this mean?” he asked her.

“It means we have to fight.”

—

The air was thick with blood and soot.

The army marched slowly from its sheer mass across the barren desert. A sea of bodies stretching far over the land walked in organic patterns, no formation and no discipline for appearances. The cloud swelled and shrank as it advanced, elves and humans drawing closer to each other in anxiety. There was no sound, each soul knowing what was to come as the city of Qarinus was just on the horizon, its walls standing tall around one of the largest cities in the Imperium. No more than an hour and they would be upon it, the crowd’s entire collective strength required to merely tear down its defences, let alone face the magisters that dwelled within.

Fenris stood at its head alone as he had always done, holding his position of power. As he stepped, his feet ached from their constant march, burning from the hot sand, but it was his duty to these people pulling him forward. For the first time in a long time, he found himself praying silently to the Maker. His head was down as he marched them forward, each step closer to Qarinus weighing heavy in his chest, and each one more agonizing than the last. In his hatred, his parched lips were thirsty for blood, but his heart hungry for faith. Once and a while he caught himself mumbling the prayers said over and over in his head. Though he was not filled with dread and doom, he only realized that this day, this victory was so critical not just to him, but for the thousands walking behind him. The lives of every single human and elf who had taken up arms for him was in his hands.

He walked as a leader, but it was only just behind him that the Captain and her mages walked. Their staves were in their hands at the ready for anything, and their thrumming magic sent shockwaves through his lyrium markings. The great sword was on his back, its weight never forgotten. Isabela’s daggers were holstered, but he could feel her fingertips twitching in anticipation to draw them even from where he was.

Once Qarinus was visible, the sky had begun to take a sinister tone. Earlier the sun burned down on them, but soon black clouds began to swallow the sky, all sunlight filtering red through them. The winds began to blow harder into their faces, not enough to cause a sandstorm forcing them back, but enough to make it difficult. It was obvious they had been spotted _–_ and expected. The sudden change in weather was intimidation on the magisters’ part, but at least one thing was clear; for them, the fight was welcome.

The only thing that the clouds were not able to block out were the flashes of lightning that had hovered over them since Necromenian. All across the sky, for as far as anyone could see, crystalline flashes of green light moved and flickered constantly. They were apparent now especially, illuminating the darkness like magical lightening. Fenris had no idea what it could have been, but it was far behind on a long list of things he worried about.

The city walls were in clear sight now, the giant doors kept it guarded from the encroaching mass. Fenris looked up now, finished with prayers he could never be certain were heard. Now it was all his own faith in his subjects driving him forward. Along the tops of the walls, he could now see magisters lined up on top of the battlements, staring them down. He could feel their foul magic at work from all the way down, but even more their condescending sneers coming from up so high. Even with a mass of soldiers, a few hundred mages would still be so arrogant as to stand up so brazenly, practically welcoming them to take them on. From up so high, they must have been able to see the army in its full form, and yet they were not phased. Perhaps this was to their advantage.

Only a few hundred feet away from the metal gates, Fenris slowed to a full stop in his tracks, hearing the sound of thousands coming to a halt behind him. He looked up to the wall, seeming like it was a mile up in all its intimidating stone walls.

“Chain them!” he heard one of the magisters cry from the top of the wall, and it set his blood ablaze. He didn’t care if they thought they could easily win, it simply made it all the more easy for him, but to order such a command as if the gathering before him was a handful of slaves. He didn’t need to say any words back to them, instead opening his mouth to let out a guttural yell, hands reaching for his weapon. He let all of his rage out in that cry, hearing it echoing behind him, swelling and becoming deafening in his ears, the sound of steel being drawn in preparation. The magisters had their staves ready to attack, but Fenris stayed still as another cry joined the army’s.

A piercing shriek was heard overhead, drowning out the mob, and the clouds were split above. The High Dragon was plummeting in a free fall through the blackness, wings flashing out to slow the speed once she reached the wall. All eyes were on her as she soared downwards, jaws snapping open to release her flames. Fenris’s eyes widened, heart bursting as the fire streamed along the wall. The magisters’ screams peeled out as they were incinerated. Only a few of them had a chance to defend themselves, spells being lobbed at the dragon as she circled around over them, sending out blast after blast at her, her shrieks making them falter. Many jumped off the wall in a panic to avoid her attacks, and Fenris held his weapon to the side of him, making sure everyone held their position. There was just one more step to the plan.

The dragon left the wall, moving out over the mob in a tight circle and went barrelling straight into the wooden gates, turning them to splinters. Then they flooded the entrance.

\--

Fenris and his friends moved forward, hacking at the first masters standing just beyond the wreckage of the gate. Rywin’s call snapped the army out of its awe at the sight of the dragon, urging them forward. He glanced at the sky for only a moment to see the dragon flying higher, disappearing back into the clouds. His legs pushed him forward, his sword out, cutting through the lavish robesaround him, his armoured shoulder bashing into bodies, knocking them to the ground. As the other soldiers crowded around him, running in all directions, he felt the ground becoming uneven. He heard the sickening crunch of bone as he ran, but he didn’t have time to look down at the magister’s face he had stepped on. The crowds did not dissipate as the lights of spells were fired at them, one whizzing past his nose, hitting the others around him.

He was lost in a sea of soldiers, head whipping around in all directions to find a target. He knew there were thousands more soldiers still outside the city, but he also knew Qarinus was big, and there would be plenty of magisters to take on. For now he charged forward, bashing and slicing away. The army had no formal military training, and the riot around him was in no way practiced or organized. There were no battle formations, just every capable warrior banding together under no banner. And just like every fight that had brought them to this point, this was bloody rebellion.

Rywin had managed to dip into an alcove to regain his balance, his heart beating rapidly without a real rhythm. Just beyond the alcove he could see two large carts with cages on top of them, elven slaves crammed in. They all clutched at each other in fright, many with bleeding wounds inflicted on them for serving their masters’ foul magic, he was sure. Pushing he way to the first cart, Rywin beat the hilt of his sword against the lock once, twice, three times until it finally cracked, swinging the door open.

“Get out! Move!” he bellowed, but didn’t have time to see how the prisoners reacted before he was on to the next.

The noise around him was incredible, steal striking steal, the screams, the aggression. There must have been more supporting them within the city, because just like every other fight, more bodies seemed to flood in. The magisters could never hold every single slave at bay. Perhaps they were doing so well because of their arrogance.

He was hit on the arm with a blade, the snap of sharp steel slicing into his flesh. He cried out but met his attacker, thrusting his sword forward. Missed. Bringing his sword back, he just managed to block the next jab. No time for a true duelist’s moves. Rather than striking fairly against the other’s steel, Rywin swung his leg out, heavy boot tripping the assailant, sending him to the ground. Rywin plunged his sword into the man’s chest, pulling out the blood-soaked blade, leaving his victim to crumple as he moved on.

The elf struggled to breathe in the suffocating crowd, but still he pushed forward with all the determination his old heart could muster.

—

She was soaring high into the clouds in her most powerful form, the promise of Flemeth fulfilled. Hawke let out one last scream before she hovered in the air, willing her body to change once again. She had to disappear after destroying the gate; she was too big a target now. She shrank to a tiny size, her wings furling in, bones retracting until she was a tiny songbird in the middle of an endless black sky.

The clouds around her tasted like blood as she plummeted back to the city. She could have guessed, her stomach churning at the horrific smell. Hawke could see the ground again, and she landed on a sidewalk in a flourish of light as she took on her human form again. He staff was in hand, leather armour pulled tight, protecting her. Her entrance took her surrounding foes by surprise, slamming her staff down on the ground, splitting it with such a force that they were all thrown backwards. Bolts of lighting shot from the end of her staff, hitting one foe before moving to the next. She couldn’t shake the taste of blood from her mouth, its saltiness filling her nose as she fought with a vengeance. With a snarl, she shoved the blade end of her staff into the abdomen of a master drawing his sword to her.

He magic was streaming out of her as she felt rage gripping her very being. She wanted to burn down the city with her breath raining fire down to purge the Imperium of its wickedness. Instead, she translated this feeling into forcing the magisters back with magic alone, smashing them into walls, sticking spears of ice into their already dead hearts. She was a boiling pit. Shielding herself from any more attacks, she went in to join the crowd of soldiers, meshing into their movements.

—

It wasn’t the open sea, but this gave her an extremely satisfying rush. Twin fangs of steel clashed against the twirling staff of a magister, fingers twirling them around until she faked the woman out, ducking around her and sticking her right blade into her back. The woman screamed with pain before going silent as she fell to the ground. Isabela tutted as she dodged another blast of magic from a man with weeping wrists and a crazed look in his eye. She could sense someone coming behind her, but she forced herself to hit the deck when the blood mage hurled a ball of fire at her. The shriek behind her confirmed she was about to be flanked. With a grin, she pushed herself up from the ground, taking one of her many smoke bombs from her belt and hurling it at the blood mage. It burst in a cloud of thick fog when she took the opportunity to curve around him, giving him the same treatment as the first.

Isabela cut through the fog before she could begin to choke on it. Seeing a break in the crowd, she ran for it, sailing past the other magisters and into an alleyway. When she came out the other side into an open area, she had to stop and gasp.

It was Merrill in the midst of the chaos, crouched in a defensive position, a whirlwind of green and yellow light all around her. The mages surrounding her had given pause, and with a sweep of her hand, the lush flora around her responded to her gesture. Thick branches and vines seemed to come to life before her, wrapped around her foes limbs tightly. There wasn’t much resistance, for when Merrill clenched a fist, the vines began to pull. Isabela held back a gag as she shielded her eyes from the carnage, but Merrill spotted her.

“Lethallan!” she called. She had been calling the pirate that a lot lately.

“Excellent work, kitten,” Isabela said with a nervous waver in her voice, stepping around the torn body parts. Merrill’s glowing aura had ceased, and she was beaming at Isabela with streaks of blood on her face. She had a sizeable gash on her left cheek, separating her tattoo. “You’ve got something there. Here, let me.” Isabela opened a pouch on her belt, taking out a healing salve and wiping a dollop of it on the elf’s cheek. Merrill smiled with gratitude, the flesh beginning to mend, but her focus turned behind Isabela. Taking the cue, the pirate whirled around, weapons at the ready.

An entire crowd of magisters were running straight at them. “Get behind me,” Merrill said, and Isabela took a long sidestep to do just that. “I’ll keep them distracted, flank as many as you can.”

It was strange hearing Merrill issuing commands, Isabela mused, and such smart ones too. The Dalish planted her staff down on the ground, sending a split through the stone and dividing the group in two from the force. Merrill blasted them with fire and Isabela leapt to the side when they advanced on the pair. Magisters might have wielded powerful magic, but Isabela was faster and stronger than they could ever hope to be. She stabbed at them, their gaudy robes providing no protection from a blade. They were as easy to kill as anything, and it seemed they often forgot that. Isabela’s blades glided through soft flesh as she whipped along, swerving in and out of bodies trying to catch her.

Merrill had drawn them in to her, but once she was surrounded, she clutched her staff close to herself and sank into the ground. Isabela’s eyes widened, surprising her enough to hesitate for too long, suffering a blow to her back from the blade end of a staff. A lick of pain struck her as she stumbled forward. Before she could get back up, Merrill emerged from the ground behind her attacker, a dagger in her hand and she dragged it across the mage’s throat.

Isabela spun around to attack, the wound in her back making her angry at her ruined coat more than anything. Once all the magisters lay dead at their feet, Merrill was using her magic to set fire to their corpses. Isabela had removed the heavy coat to inspect the damage, irritated that she had let herself lose focus.

“I’m sure we can patch that up,” Merrill chirped as she began to rub some of the same salve that had fixed the cut in her face on Isabela’s back, soothing the sting of the wound. The dead masters burned at their feet while the sounds of battle were just beyond where they had fought. They were much farther ahead than the others, but this was where Fenris wanted them. He knew their abilities all too well.

“Merrill?” Isabela asked as she was slipping her coat back on. “What was that thing you did?”

“What thing?” she asked naively, but her expression changed when she realized. “Oh, that thing through the ground? I could always do it but it took a lot of strength. I don’t know what it is, but since we arrived here, I’ve been feeling so much stronger than normal.”

Isabela offered a one-shouldered shrug as she cleaned off her daggers with a rag ripped from a mage’s robe. “We are near the Arlathan Forest.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s right! I remember seeing it on a map of Tevinter in that tavern.” Merrill smiled widely. “Maybe being this close to the ancestors is giving me some sort of power!”

The pirate returned the smile. “Whatever it is, embrace it, we’ve got a long way to go, Kitten.” She began to walk forward, Merrill following her, leaving the bodies to burn. “Onward?”

Merrill nodded, her staff in hand as they made their way closer to the city centre.

—

Pain shot through her as she gasped for air, feeling like her lungs had collapsed inside of her. There was darkness at the edges of her vision, but it was being overpowered by the bright blue light just out of her sight.

“Come on, come on, don’t die! You can make it, Hawke!”

Anders was bent over her, the blue light coming from his hands as they worked to fix her wound. So close to disembowelment, he had said. So close to instant death, if not for the tough leather armour protecting her. Already his healing hands had provided some relief from the pain, and her vision was less blurred. But then it stopped, and Anders yelled, standing up from where he was while she was still weak. She felt a wave of heat from the fireballs he released, but he was back on his knees, looking down at her face.

“Hey! Can you hear me? Hang in there, Hawke.”

She didn’t know how it happened. Always so able, never sustaining anything like this. She felt the knife cut through her and she fell back, the magister standing over her ready to finish her off. But he was blasted aside like nothing when Anders came after her in a rage. She felt herself slipping until he began to heal her, her flesh mending together, but the pain still stayed.

Hawke coughed on the ground when he withdrew his hands, popping open a bottle of lyrium potion and gulping it down. She sat up, hand on her stomach where she had been injured. She looked at Anders, sweat dripping down her face.

“Thank you. You saved my life.”

He smiled at her, but stood up, offering a hand. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Hawke, we’ve got a long way to go.”

She took Anders’ hand and her helped her stand up. She spotted her staff on the ground not ten feet away and went to retrieve it. “Oh, more magisters? What could be better? Qarinus is crawling with them.”

Anders waited for her as they began to jog through the streets. “You know, I wonder what Justice would think if he ever got a chance to see this.”

“Oh, I’m certain he was aware of it.”

“I don’t know about that.” Anders was beside Hawke as they moved around buildings, trying to get to another area of the city where they had some leverage. They passed by shops, houses, everything colourful, the stone foundations looking like they would glow under the sunlight. Instead they looked dull and drab under the sky. Whoever was causing the unnatural weather had to be an extremely powerful magister. It made Hawke sick thinking just how many innocents had to be sacrificed for it. Those clouds, although appearing black, were truly red and tasting of blood.

“So, uh, dragon, huh?”

Anders was grinning at her, and she just gave an amused expression in return. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you if we make it out of this alive.”

He had his staff at the ready when they emerged into a side street filled with fighting soldiers and masters. Anders and Hawke began to attack, knocking back the masters giving the others a chance to attack while they were down. Hawke sent out a blast that ricocheted off the buildings, controlling it to hit only enemies before reigning it back in. Anders threw any and all firepower he had at the others, resorting to using his blade against those who got too close.

Hawke didn’t have to say anything to signal that she was ready to move on. They raced out of the side street into the middle of a wide road, seeing the bodies of magisters in pieces. Wrapped around limbs were vines now laying limp. Hawke nodded to the trail of blood that had followed, seeing the footprints of bare feet alongside a pair of women’s boots. She could only make an educated guess as to where the trail would lead them.

Up a small flight of stairs and just around a corner, Anders and Hawke had to hesitate as they saw Merrill and Isabela back to back in the middle of a ring of magisters. Isabela had her daggers ready, but Merrill had created a barrier around them of plant life. The pirate saw them between the branches encasing them.

“Help us!” she spat, clearly out of ideas. Already it caught the attention of the magisters who stood ready to attack the other pair.

Anders charged out, spells firing all around him enough to break up the enemies surrounding Merril and Isabela. Hawke followed his lead in the other direction and Merrill burst out of her cocoon of branches. Isabela darted across, facing a mage head on, daggers flashing.

“Watch out!” Hawke heard, striking down an enemy just as Fenris arrived into their square, his sword in front of him, deflecting a spell aimed at her back. He jumped up, slicing at the mages while Hawke moved forward. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, the first time seeming him all day. His armour and hair were soaked in blood. His sword cut through the mages surrounding them, skin glowing bright from his tattoos. Hawke built a ring of fire around her when the other magisters came too close, setting their robes aflame.

Anders was thrown back by a powerful blast, landing flat on his back. Isabela was at his side, helping him back up, and Merrill shot through the ground again to get closer to a foe, slashing them across the throat with a dagger. Fenris and Hawke stayed together for the remainder of the fight until the bodies were piled up and Anders and Merrill were controlling the flames.

They were out of breath, but their fight was far from over. Fenris paced around the empty square, thinking. He instructed the other three to begin securing the perimeter, while he and Hawke went the other way. They had been fighting the entire day, and only a quarter of the city had been secured.

“How is everything at the gate?” Hawke asked as they set markers for where a guard would be stationed for the night. The magisters were playing along as far as proper warfare went.

He sighed, weary. “Surprisingly well. I have no idea what we’re in for tomorrow.” They walked slowly among the crumbling buildings, although many were still in tact. The sky overhead was still dark, but somehow it seemed to have just barely lifted. Something about them wasn’t so black anymore.

“Well, you’ve a dragon on your side, as Flemeth promised.” Hawke smirked and Fenris let out a bemused laugh.

“Took you long enough to do that.”

“Don’t want to burn down this city, though. This is probably your last stop for a while. You could set up a proper base here, you know.”

She had meant it in jest, although not entirely. Fenris didn’t return her smile, but he stopped walking to stare at her. His armoured hand, still sticky with blood, was on the side of her face, bringing her in to kiss her hard on the lips. She let out a whimper as their mouths moved desperately against each other, and as she went to wrap her arms around his neck, he pulled away.

“Hawke, I…” he began, trailing off, a shock of blush on his cheeks as he looked into her eyes. His gaze suddenly flicked away as he withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry, there’s no time. We should move on.”

Her heart was beating, surely her face going beat red, but she reluctantly agreed with him and followed.

—

Soldiers whipped past him on their way to their guard stations as he made his way wearily back towards the entrance of the city where most of his people congregated. He was walking with a slight limp, his mind only registering that he had turned his ankle at some point during the fight. All around him in the wide open spaces, people assembled into groups of their families and friends. The smell of burning bodies was wafting in from the distance where the makeshift pyres for their own as well as the magisters stood. It would have sickened him, but now he was so used to it. Hawke had said the Veil was thin here with all the corruption, and the sooner the dead were disposed of, the better. He doubted they could contend with both the magisters and an army of possessed bodies.

Although Fenris had never been to Qarinus, he could guess that at least a good quarter of the city had been taken, more than he could have hoped for in a single day. The sandstone buildings which were being taken up by soldiers as shelter for the night (at least what he could only presume was the night, black clouds still looming overhead and blocking out any sense of the day) were chipped at and damaged, but nothing that couldn’t be repaired once he took control.

Control. There had been whispers among the people when they thought he was out of earshot. He didn’t know why they were keeping secrets from him; any time there was no fighting, people clamoured to express their thanks. It was overwhelming at large, endlessly appreciated, but he never knew an appropriate way to reiterate their gratitude. But these whisperings spoke of something bigger. Qarinus was the last stop before he made any plans to move on Minrathous, which was still a huge pain in his neck. The dockside city was one of the biggest cities in the Imperium, and just as important as the capital when it came to politics, or so he had heard. He was always accepted as their leader since the first stones were thrown, but now they spoke of making him something more official, as if their rebellion had the authority to do so. They had covered enough land to sanction themselves, so why wouldn’t they? But the word they used was _Rex_. A _king._ The thought scared him more than whatever horrors awaited him in the next fight.

Sporadic campfires were set up in the streets outside, with large pots and cauldrons taken from the kitchens of houses in the secured area. Soldiers were lined up, each one holding whatever could hold the stews being brewed. He found Isabela and Merrill at one of these, each of them with bandages wrapped around their arms, legs, gauze pads pressed in other places. All around Merrill were a small group of other Dalish elves, their tattooed faces alight as she spoke excitedly despite her eyes filled with tiredness. Such newly captured slaves if they still possessed their vallaslin and still young enough to fight. They were the ones who had no hangups about fighting for their freedom.

Hawke found him and they ate hastily before catching up with the others. Anders had broken into a mage’s home, raiding their potion supplies, and encouraged other soldiers to do the same. It was a long road ahead, and whatever supplies they could get would be useful. Fenris felt a twinge of annoyance at Anders for instructing his own army, but he let it pass; it wasn’t like it was bad advice. Still, he noted that Isabela’s hand over him had become quite lax since they had met up in Necromenian.

In Anders’ own new collection of procured potions, several small flasks filled with a glowing blue substance were tucked into the pouches of his belt. They sat in an empty home on pieces of strewn furniture that were salvageable, eating scraps of bread that had been in the pantry. It was far from the mansions that dotted the coastline, and whoever had lived here likely didn’t have much for them to ransack. Hawke and Isabela had picked apart whatever riches they could, at which Fenris rolled his eyes. Force of habit, he supposed, from her days in Kirkwall before finding her fortune in the Deep Roads.

“Hawke, whatever coin you pick up in this shack is not what you’re going to find in the magister’s homes,” Fenris quipped as she was rifling through a handbag that sat in a closet.

“I thought every little bit helps,” she replied snidely, finding only a few pieces of silver to stuff into her pockets.

“What would you even use it for?” Anders asked, thumb and finger spinning a flask of lyrium potion. “I mean, when was the last time any of us _bought_ something?”

She had to think about that one, and tilted her head to the side. “Drinks somewhere?”

“Speaking of which,” Isabela said, her hand reaching far back in one of the kitchen cupboards. She pulled out a large and strange looking bottle. “What might this be?” She walked back to the circle where the others sat, handing the bottle to Fenris. He took it, inspecting the faded label, armoured claws clinking against the glass.

He frowned. “A common liqueur in Tevinter.”

“Looks a bit old.”

Fenris pulled the cork out of the opening, putting it to his nose and smelling the sweet honey mixed with the sting of alcohol. “It doesn’t really go bad.” He handed the bottle back to Isabela

“I think we should all have a drink, it’s been a long day.” She plopped down in her spot next to Merrill. Fenris just glared.

“We’re in the middle of war, we shouldn’t be sedating ourselves.”

“And we need some rest,” Hawke interjected, sitting next to him, resisting the urge to lean her head on his armoured shoulder. “Just enough to take the edge off. We’re only conking out for a few hours, at any rate, we’ll be up all night.”

“I’ll pass, Hawke,” Merrill peeped. “I’m ready to conk out at any time.”

Fenris grunted, watching as Isabela was already taking a swing, wincing from the sweetness.

Anders instead opened the lyrium potion he had been playing with, taking a drink of that instead. He shuddered at its effect.

“You shouldn’t have too many of those,” Hawke mumbled, taking the bottle of liqueur from Isabela. “Not good for you.”

“I’ve had worse,” he said, trying to be chipper, but sighed as the surge of mana he got from the vial slowed in his veins. “Some people came to me asking for healing when we started to pull back. It was bad.” He rubbed at his right eye and Fenris just gave him a calculating look. Most people he spoke to didn’t much care for the fact that he had three mages in his stead. At least he knew he hadn’t been the only one at one point with issues trusting them.

Merrill was leaning on Isabela, obviously ready for rest. He hadn’t seen her using blood magic since they met up. Whether it was to not appear as a magister (not that a Dalish ever would be), or she had truly repented, he wasn’t sure. He still barely trusted the witch, but just enough to stop calling her that to her face. Who he did trust was Isabela, and if she had any influence over her end to using blood magic, he owed her the credit.

Hawke and Isabela were passing the bottle between each other, putting the cork back in it before they felt too hazy. They kept chatting until they had slumped in their seats, eventually Merrill and Isabela curled up together and dozing lightly. The others were fading just as fast, but he found himself still restless. Hawke was asleep against him, and carefully letting her lie down across the sofa they shared, he quickly left the house outside. It was still black as night outside, torches now lining the streets for better vision. There was still food being served, still soldiers moving back and forth, still people coming back injured. Through the bustling, he could hear the drowned noise of warfare beyond their perimeter. He knew he should be out there with the others still fighting, but it wasn’t possible to win a city over the course of days without rest.

As he passed by one of the improvised canteens, he saw the commander sitting alone on an overturned cart, pensively eating and looking towards the rest of the city. Rywin looked to still be in good shape, albeit weary from his age, and Fenris approached him carefully.

“This isn’t normal,” the old elf muttered, not looking toward Fenris, but acknowledging his presence.

“What isn’t?” he asked, worried it could be all kinds of things.

“This,” he motioned vaguely with his hand at the crowds. “This isn’t a siege on a city, not normally. The magisters are playing nice, treating this like a proper war. I don’t understand.”

Rywin sighed and placed his empty bowl beside him, hopping down from the cart. His hands shook slightly, but it looked like the food had helped him regain his strength better already. “It’s like this is the Qunari War for them. Like both sides are holed up in fortresses plotting while the pawns are out in the trenches doing the actual killing.”

There was a bitterness in his voice. He began to walk forward through the streets, Fenris alongside him. They were silent for a few moments passing by rows upon rows of soldiers still in their armour resting on bedrolls in the streets, each building occupied for one use or another. The ones that were awake, tending to the injured, making the food, all offered him a smile and a nod of their heads.

“At least you’re keeping morale up,” Rywin snorted before stopping in his path to face Fenris. “I must ask you, though, the dragon?”

Fenris averted his eyes from the suddenly steely blue stare of the older man. He crossed his arms, and decided he could only be honest. “It’s Hawke,” he muttered, lifting his head when he found the courage to make eye contact again. Rywin’s eyebrow had raised slightly. “Talent of hers.”

“You don’t even see shapeshifting like that in the Imperium,” the commander said cautiously. “It’s not blood magic?”

He shook his head. “She would never. She knows too well what blood magic does to people.”

Rywin was skeptical. “It just seems you’ve found friends along your way and they’re an awful lot of mages.”

He said the last word in a way all too familiar to him. Fenris narrowed his eyes quizzically, about to say that he trusted Merrill and Anders, but that wasn’t true. He only trusted Isabela, which, if he had to think about it, was probably just as stupid. “When I first escaped, I would have agreed with you. But Hawke was…” He searched for a word, but in truth no word could truly suffice. “Different,” he went with. “I owe her my life many times over. There is nobody I trust more than her.”

The elf’s expression was unreadable, but Fenris could swear there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. He looked away, back towards the city beyond, a nearly inaudible sigh escaping his lips. “Have you heard from Raenys?”

Fenris was surprised by the change in subject, and he frowned. “No. Why?”

“I’ve known her for a long time,” he said, gaze becoming distant. “The girl’s probably fine, I’m not having doubts about her. Most resourceful woman I know.”

The thought of Raenys had barely crossed his mind since she left, but he supposed he should have thought of her. She said she would find him again when she was finished spying in the west. What she meant by that, he wasn’t sure, but if Rywin’s confidence in her was as strong as it was, then he could only hope she followed through.

“We should get some rest while we can,” Rywin said suddenly. “Who knows if the magisters will ever allow us more time like this again.”

With a nod, Fenris and the commander went their separate ways. He finally managed to get his mind clear enough to fall asleep, even just for a little while, his arms around Hawke, the sound of her heartbeat just enough to allow him to drift off.

—

“Get up!” Hawke screamed loud enough to fill the entire room, jostling him awake and setting his heart racing. He was beside her watching as the others groaned, picking themselves up out of their awkward resting poses.

“Get up, we have to move, they’re attacking our territory, let’s _move!_ ”

Fenris’s tattoos were already alight. Hawke didn’t look behind her as she threw the door open to see the chaos around her. They had been taken by surprise, of course, not only a few hours after the soldiers found some respite. As they charged with the rest of the army into the streets, out of the corner of his eye she saw the others who had followed out of the house.

“Catch up with you later!” Isabela called, bounding into the crowd with her daggers drawn, ready to strike a blow into the first master she could find. Fenris stayed with Hawke as they moved forward, blending into the stream of soldiers moving towards the city centre. Somewhere in the midst of the noise, she heard Rywin’s call to arms. The only light around them were the torches mounted on the sides of buildings, but soon it was the flames engulfing the winding streets.

The army seemed fuller despite its losses on the first day, many of Qarinus’s own people freeing themselves to fight their masters. The damage from blood magic was the worst they had ever seen, entire droves of dead slaves drained of all blood, some being brought back when the magisters summoned their demons. Another full day passed, but the magisters didn’t seem to be giving the army much pause as they had before. Soldiers were swapped in and out of battle, one wave taking place of another to rest and to eat before they collapsed from exhaustion. This was what Rywin had envisioned as a siege that lasted and lasted. Fenris never could have guessed just how many magisters were in Qarinus, but it seemed their numbers were endless.

They had slept a total of three times now. There was a soreness in his limbs he could not begin to describe. All the wounds suffered, although healed with salves and magic, still stung like they were fresh. Fenris was exhausted by the time he woke on the fourth time to fight. The others were still with him, the tiredness hanging around their eyes in bruise violet circles. The last day was spent praying to the Maker it would all be over soon, one way or another.

At least progress was clear when the coast was visible. Isabela spent much of her time down there, fighting every slaver captain and loudly marvelling at the ships in between the slashes of her daggers. So easily she had forgotten about her own still docked in Necromenian. By that point, much of the army had followed behind him, soldiers reporting to him that certain streets and neighbourhoods had been purged. Anyone who didn’t fight back was cuffed and contained, ready for judgement. Gradually Fenris wasn’t so alone when fighting, with no enemies strategically splitting him up from either his army or his friends. Their injuries were fewer, the army’s casualties were fewer.

On the fourth day, it was finally noticeable that they were coming to an end of their fight. Off the shore on a steep hill were the homes of Qarinus’s most elite, but just further inland was an absolute palace of a Senate. Its front courtyard was a gigantic stone slab stretching endlessly as the highest point of the city. On a normal day it would have been bare save for the magisters walking to and fro over it. It looked remarkably pristine even with the battle, something that unnerved Fenris right away. The rest of the streets were awash with blood, there had been fighting in the courtyard itself, but the smooth white marble looked untouched. It sprawled endlessly across in front of them, seeming to move farther and farther away with each step. It was like the desert again, stretching on forever with no end in sight. Only this time, the end was right there within their grasp, but just too far to grasp it.

As the five of them walked on the palace, Rywin lead the army just behind them. While the entire city was still filled with violence, there was a mob of hundreds ready to storm the magisters still holed up in their fortress. Fenris wasn’t sure exactly when it happened, or why, but the sky appeared to have lightened up. It could have to do with the proximity of the shore, the horizon stretching onward with clear skies just barely in view, or maybe the magic in the air was finally lessening. Finally they drew close to the grand steps, ready to signal to the army that still followed to storm the area. Just before he was about to take the first step up, the grand double doors of the palace opened.

A single magister stepped out, clad in his most ceremonious and decorative robes, whatever exposed skin he showed covered in golden jewelry. He looked pale and frail, improbably supporting the amount of metal he wore, but he still walked pridefully, ornate staff in hand. The other hand was held out to stop them from advancing further. He reached the top of the steps, blank eyes staring straight at Fenris.

“I knew Danarius many years ago,” he stated without emotion. “Always figured him for a fool.”

“Should we get this over with then?” Fenris spat, a sneer coming over his face. “You’re surrounded, there’s no way out of this.”

The lord’s eyes flicked upwards to see the square outlined with soldiers just waiting for Fenris’s signal. He sighed heavily, one sounding more reserved for being annoyed by insolent children than facing an army. “Do I have a choice to surrender?” He began to take slow steps down to their level, his calm alarming Fenris enough to let him walk past them, facing the enraged crowd.

“No,” Fenris said bluntly, raising one hand, signalling the army, then-

There was a blinding flash of light, and all sound was silenced as he felt his body flung to the side, hitting something hard. His eyes were open, the whiteness barely fading, making out traces of his hands. Still no sound. He was on the ground scrambling around, and while his vision cleared, there was no sign of what he had been thrown into. He heard the first sound coming back to him, Hawke yelling something while more light flashed around him. There was somebody helping him up - Isabela - and he wobbled to his feet. A few seconds passed and his vision cleared enough to see. The army was all around them, but separated from them, their hands pressed against glass. The Lord magister was standing in the middle of it all, holding his staff with both hands, head bowed.

He trapped himself in with them, one of the most powerful mages in Thedas against only them. He felt himself grow cold with fear as he looked forward, seeing his soldiers giving up on the forcefield and back to the other magisters now streaming out of the palace.

“You’ve made quite the mistake,” Hawke said, her familiar cockiness coating the threat, bracing for attack. The magister’s eyes glowed red as he dragged a dagger across his forearm, beginning his first spell.

It was chaos in the cramped dome prison. Each time Fenris tried to lash out with his sword, he was hit with a spell, knocking him backwards, tasting blood in his throat. Isabela was similarly on the ground with him just as frequently, but Hawke, Merrill and Anders handled themselves expertly, spinning their staves to deflect incoming attacks, blasting the magister with everything they had. Ice shot out of the ground, fire blazed for moments before disappearing and lighting bounced off the invisible walls.

Isabela stayed just behind him, bouncing on the balls of her feet, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. They had been forced to the very edge of the barrier, reduced to dodging the attacks ricocheting around them. The magister was disappearing and appearing in different spots around the arena, casting obscene spells, the demons at his command just waiting to burst out of thin air. Then he tripped up, planting himself right in front of them, his eyes now devoid of colour, bleeding from the mouth. Fenris reacted instantly, raising his sword to strike overhand. He hit the staff and was thrown to the side. He stumbled before standing up straight, facing the magister but saw the space empty. There was a sharp pain at his back and the taste of blood in his mouth. His hands grew weak, dropping the weight of his sword, his body filled with chills when he heard a woman’s scream. He looked down to see the blade’s tip sticking out of his front.

—

The amount of coward magisters crawling out of the palace like roaches made him all the more angry. Rywin pulled his sword from his last foe, spinning around to see the cursed prison his leader was now trapped in. He lingered only for a second when horror washed over his face. Fenris, slumped over to his knees, the magister’s foul staff blade skewering him like a piece of meat. Rywin heard himself gasp before it turned to a scream, tearing himself away from the sight and plunging his sword into the soft, untrained flesh of another mage.

A fire spell caught his arm, knocking him down, seething at the flames burning his flesh. He staggered forward, bashing with his shield, trying to clear his way through. There was nothing he could do for Fenris, there was nothing anyone could do, the reincarnation of Shartan was dead. But they couldn’t give up now.

He was knocked on his back, bashing his head off the hard ground. He looked up at the reddened sky above him, seeing only the edges of a robe before the gash was dug deep across his throat.

\--

Hawke couldn’t contain her magic when she saw Fenris drop to his knees, the staff removed from his back. She didn’t care just how loud she screamed, tearing apart the air and sending all of her energy at the magister, not caring how accurate she was. She didn’t notice Isabela dive out of the way of one of her attacks, didn’t notice the dagger she threw planting into the mage’s shoulder. The Lord magister faltered from the blow, yet he made no sound indicating he was in pain, only stared blankly ahead, arms swaying when his shaking hands dropped the staff.

She was torn between who she should go to, but she watched as Anders dropped to his knees next to Fenris’s body, his hands glowing blue. In a snap decision, Hawke sent a blast of ice at the magister fumbling for his staff, freezing him from the chest down. Satisfied by the handicap, she rushed over beside Anders, hitting her knees hard on the stone.

“Stand back, Hawke!” Anders barked, and she startled, her hands at the ready to aid healing. “I have to be precise! Stay _back!_ ”

Anders had ripped his now ruined plate armour off of him, his tunic torn open and the gory hole revealed. The blood had spilled out around him. Hawke could see Fenris’s face still moving, his eyes darting but distant, wincing slightly. Her heart was frozen inside of her as she watched helplessly. Anders had one hand hovering over the wound, his other held just below the wound.

“Come over here, hold his shoulders still,” he said and Hawke complied.

Both his hands were over the wound now, holding it closed as the blue glow intensified. Anders’ brow was creased in concentration as he gritted his teeth, focusing all his strength. Hawke looked down at Fenris, feeling his shoulders start to spasm, and she held them down as instructed. His face was pale and wet with sweat, but he was fighting. The glow from the healer’s hands stopped and he withdrew.

“Turn him over,” he instructed again. They turned his body over carefully, and Anders began to seal up the wound from the back, quicker this time. Then they laid him back down.

“His organs should be in order,” Anders said, without any light in his voice. He took a healing potion from his belt, uncorking it and putting it to Fenris’s lips. He responded by swallowing it down and sighing.

“Fenris?” Hawke asked desperately. “Please.”

Anders pulled back when Fenris began to rise from the ground, his face pained as he did. Immediately he turned his head to see Merrill maintaining the frozen prison the Lord magister was currently trapped in. Isabela held his staff, having smashed the red gem that was held in it. The army that stood on the outside of the barrier had ceased fighting around it, all of them peering in, looking to each other with relief when Fenris moved.

Fenris muttered when he picked himself up to his feet, shaking from the blood loss but still moving forward towards the magister. His markings began to glow and he walked forward, staggering as he did so. He offered no ceremony, no words as he plunged his hand into the magister’s chest, withdrawing his hand with a sicking sound, leaving the mass of bloody flesh at his feet. Once he did, the forcefield shattered like glass, its magical energies fading, shimmering until disappearing completely. It was still silent around them, the remaining army standing in awe. When Fenris’s knees began to buckle, Hawke jumped up to stand beside him, putting his arm around her shoulders for support. His tunic hung open, the wound on his stomach and angry red scar, the flesh Anders had knitted together looking marled. His breath was raspy, but he was alive. She watched as his colourless face grew brighter, more golden in the light. Looking towards the sky, she saw the blackened clouds fading away. She felt a weight on her side, Fenris slumping against her, and the others were around her, supporting him as they moved towards the palace.

The sky was clear, and Qarinus was theirs.

—

He woke up in a dreamy haze. Vision blurred, he smelled the cool fresh air with the hint of sea salt blowing gently in through the window. He felt himself surrounded by softness, although peculiarly there was no feeling about his midsection. Not paying it any great thought, he let his head lull to the side to examine his surroundings. He was in bed, that was one thing, and to his left were large opened windows giving him a beautiful view of the sea. He turned his head back, observing the room he was in. The ceiling was high, the room vast and empty, but swathed in luxury. Tapestries hung on the golden stone walls, motifs of vipers adorning everything that was decorated. He tried to sit up, but his previously numb middle was suddenly wracked with pain and he winced, laying back down into the soft pillows.

There was a hand on his shoulder as another body stirred beside him. He looked to his other side, seeing Hawke just rousing from sleep, her half-lidded eyes staring at him warmly. She lifted her head, messy black locks falling in front of her face, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

"I've been informed you are not to move," she said, her voice deep and laced with tiredness.

He tried to say something in response, but his throat was dry and he could only force a grunt in understanding. He felt his eyes growing heavy again as he let them close, feeling Hawke curling up at his side. Her instructions seemed perfectly reasonable to him.

\--

The door slammed open as the others rushed after him. Fenris had a scowl on his face and a slight limp in his step as he wanted to distance himself from the others as much as possible. It was ludicrous, what they had suggested, not that it hadn't crossed his mind before. But this was hardly the time.

"I wasn't expecting him to be so cross with the idea."

"Really? This is exactly how I expected he would react."

Fenris stopped in his tracks, whirling around to shoot Anders and Merrill a glare. He just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "It's a stupid suggestion and I will not hear it."

They stood in the middle of the front foyer of the Senate, pieces of rubble still strewn about a week after the fight had ended. The lush curtains and tapestries were partially torn down, furniture in disarray. For a week now, the palace had been his home, a fact he found unnerving considering the countless horrors that could have happened there.

Anders narrowed his eyes. Ever since he had saved Fenris's life on the battlefield he had barely been able to resist the urge to hold it over his head. "It's not our _suggestion_ , we're just the messengers for your people."

Fenris sighed, pacing on the spot. He hadn't been well. Ever since being able to stand up and walk again, he had just been frustrated and worried. About what, nobody really knew. For one, he was upset he hadn't been able to attend the service for Rywin, his body and all the others burned on pyres quickly for everyone's safety. Some guessed he was still mourning for him, but there were a million thoughts on his mind.

Merrrill and Anders had come in telling him the simple fact: the people wanted a more official leader. Just as Fenris suspected, as the word had travelled on the lips of each soldier for a long time now, that title was that of "king". As soon as Merrill said it, he was set alight with anger. He didn't want this. All he wanted was to revel in their victory for a moment before turning on Minrathous. And if they were to stay in Qarinus for a while longer, he would rather take refuge in a place small enough to suit his needs, and not the Lord magister's decadent quarters.

"It's ridiculous," Fenris snarled. "How exactly should I be _king_ , as you say?"

Merrill shrugged. "They all voted for you?"

"You don't vote for kings." He turned his gaze towards Anders who looked completely exasperated.

“I would have voted for you…”

He just shook his head, turning back around and made his way towards the front doors of the Senate. In all truth, since Anders said he had fully recovered, he couldn't wait to get out of the palace and into a borrowed building that looked more normal. His hands hit the dark wood of the door and he pushed it open with great effort. Of course a door like that was most likely used to being opened with magic rather than actual hands, its impractical weight proving an unexpected challenge. As it slowly swung open, he was greeted by the sight of the sunny skies, Hawke standing just outside and a sea of faces starting at the steps and spreading out as far as he could see. He was frozen in the doorway, seeing her warm smile and beckoning gesture. His head snapped back to the mages, Merrill grinning widely and Anders looking particularly smug.

He stepped out of the building and towards Hawke, looking radiant under the desert sun. She held his attention for only a second, however, looking over the crowd, every single face wide-eyed and expectant as he stepped forward. Reaching the edge of the steps, the entire sea erupted in cheers and applause. He was speechless, his heart hitting his chest hard. He couldn't even see the end of them, their numbers bleeding into the streets surrounding the Senate courtyard. Their support was deafening, lasting for a few minutes before dying down. Fenris had nothing prepared to say, unless he was just expected to repeat the words he always spoke after each victory. This was different. What Anders had said...

"Fenris," Hawke said quietly, gesturing to a man at the top of the stairs who stepped forward. He was older, human, with a soft smile. He was dressed in robes not dissimilar to the robes worn by Chantry brothers.

"I guess Anders and Merrill told you," Hawke mumbled.

He looked at her, eye wide with fear. "I do not want this."

She took his hands in hers, running callused fingers over his. "It's purely ceremonial, you've been leading these people this entire time. _They_ want this. It doesn't matter what you're called, commander, king. Nobody has to call you "your majesty" if you don't want them to."

He looked out over the crowd again, their eager faces, some crying tears of joy, their gratefulness radiating from them in waves. He held his breath when he looked over to the Chantry brother, but his eyes narrowed.

"I'm guessing this Soporati has decided to show his face only now."

"He insisted," Hawke said with only a hint of sarcasm. The gentle smile dropped from the brother's face as they exchanged glances.

Fenris simply shook his head, dismissing the brother. "While no doubt I would like to have the Maker's blessing, I do not need it from those who did not stand with us when it was important."

The brother was baffled, mouth sputtering in attempts to say something, anything, but he respectfully bowed his head, stepping back into the crowd, face red with embarrassment.

"Now _that's_ what I expected," Hawke said with a laugh, but Fenris was still very aware of the crowd waiting for him. He gritted his teeth together, straightened his back and began to speak on the spot.

"You all have yourselves and the ones standing next to you to thank for your lives today," he began, voice projecting out into the crowd, Hawke's magic letting it carry as far as it needed to reach as she spun a spell behind him. "Our victory here is just as much your doing as it is mine, as it is anybody's." He paused to lick his lips, his stomach still in knots. "It has come to my attention that many wish to see me elected as your King. I will accept this title and this blessing, but I will not forget that our fight is not over. As your King, I will not cease to fight for the freedom of every person still in chains. While we are in Qarinus, I will not allow a single person to go without their basic needs, and I will not stand idly by while the city needs rebuilding. I will accept the title as King, but I will not spend my days sitting on a throne."

He was shouting himself hoarse by the last sentence, the crowd cheering loudly in support. The knots in his stomach had loosened and he was breathing slightly easier. He hadn't noticed Merrill and Anders stepping out of the building behind him, or even Isabela who had emerged from the crowd, in her hands a wooden box. She opened it, revealing inside the diadem the Lord magister had worn when they had fought. He raised his eyebrows at the pirate who just smiled in response.

"Every king needs a crown."

The diadem was remarkably simple in its detail, two golden snakes wrapped around each other, their heads meeting in the centre holding a red round jewel between their mouths. The red sphere was cracked, any magical properties it once had now gone.

"Not yet, then?" she asked and he shook his head. When Fenris took one more gaze over the crowd, each person had dropped to one knee like they always had. His friends had done the same, leaving him standing in the middle of them, taking shaky breaths. Eventually the bodies all rose, and he felt Hawke's hand on his shoulder.

"So," Isabela said, clutching the wooden box to her person tightly, drumming her fingers on the edge. "What are you going to do in Qarinus, my King?”

He hesitated, feeling the words right on his tongue, but nervous to say them. "I will do as kings do. I will rule."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that, but I had to get that godawful Daenerys quote in there somewhere.


	5. King Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said the rating would only go up for violence and not for smut? Yeah, that was a (non-deliberate) lie.

For all his promises of being proactive, the world certainly wasn’t making it easy on him.

Shortly after settling in as Qarinus’s leader, a number of ships had arrived from Seheron; all the magisters that had been on the island were coming back and fiercely fighting for the land that had been taken from them. Many had abandoned the island they had warred with the Quanari over for so many years in favour of the mainland, despite it being clear that they had no chance. In the few weeks it took for the first ships to arrive on the shores, thousands of more former slaves had flocked to Qarinus from the Eastern cities. Even the Soporati, those lower class but barely ranking higher than slaves, had assimilated into the new way of living. The city could provide much, especially from the people who already knew it best.

The Senate building itself had been “modified” mostly by Fenris and Hawke in the evenings. Most important was the newly dubbed “throne room” where the magisters in the Senate used to meet. Indeed there was a throne in the middle of it all on the highest platform, the rows of seats below it forming a circle for discussions. Like all the other rooms, it had been remarkably decorated in black and gold, the colours of the Imperium. The first thing they did was tear down the tapestries displaying vulgar representations of mage dominance over slaves. Anywhere else the imagery was present, they defaced with red paint they had found in a store of supplies. What remained in the throne room was now an undecorated and trashed mess of paint. As vandalized as it now was, it was a perfect representation of what they had fought for. The old symbols of the Imperium were gone, destroyed, or covered in red as if to cross them out, to edit the history books. In time there would be opportunity to replace them with something new, something belonging to each and every one of the freed people, living or dead. For now, the Imperium being a smouldering pile of ash was good enough.

After fighting for so long, it was hard for anybody to resume normal life, or at any rate, to start a completely new life after being enslaved. It was a society where everything had to be salvaged. Coin was useless as not a single person had any coin to speak of when they arrived. There were still rations available, but food would spoil fast if no more was cultivated. The remarkable amount of volunteers to work the fields surrounding the city and to fish using the many crew-less ships lifted a huge weight off of Fenris’s shoulders. For days on end he had been on the streets absorbing all the information he could. Many would come to him with problems they had been having with housing, with food, or with each other. It was disheartening to realize that after one group fought with such solidarity how quickly it could dissolve into squabbling and petty crime. He supposed it could have been worse.

When he wasn’t fighting the returning magisters from Seheron, he was out trying to solve every person’s problem by himself. It didn’t take long until Hawke and Isabela had dragged him back to the palace (as it was now referred to) advising him to take a different approach with his leadership.

“I told you, I did not want my days spent as King to be wasted sitting on that bloody throne!”

Fenris was seated at the head of the borrowed dining table in the old Lord magister’s personal quarters. The stone slab stretched out far beyond what had to have been necessary for a table. Hawke and Isabela sat on either side of him, making the room seem even more vast and empty with such a small crowd. They ate plain mashed potatoes, carrots and chicken from a large room in the palace kept ice cold by magic. It was only Hawke that knew how to cook anything decent out of the three of them.

“Well, that’s why there _are_ thrones,” Isabela started. “You can’t be out there trying to fix everything yourself. What a ruler does is assign people to solve these problems and oversee everything from there.”

“I know what they do,” he snapped. He had been rather grouchy with all their prodding.

“Fenris, you are so stubborn,” Hawke sighed. “It’s been two weeks since you made that speech. And have things improved?”

“Food’s running out,” Isabela added. “I’ve been trying to orchestrate fishing, but it’s hard to distribute the food once it makes it to shore. At least the farms are somewhat operational, but it’s not enough.”

Fenris pursed his lips together, staring down at his own half-finished meal. Suddenly he didn’t feel so hungry, but everything was telling him not to let the food go to waste. He sighed. “So what should I do?”

“The people won’t mind you doing a bit of throne-sitting if it means you’re helping them more in the long run.” Hawke reached over to touch his arm supportively. Fenris still just stared at his plate. “Nobody ever wants these things, but you’ll have to grow into it or this was all for nothing.”

He knew it was the truth, but still he was silent. His gaze shifted to the other end of the table as he became lost in thought. He tried to think back to any time of his past where he might have at least heard about government and how things worked. From what he could gather from being among his people, they knew how to do day-to-day things themselves. They had such a strong sense of community, there just needed to be something filling in the cracks and holding it all together.

Fenris didn’t notice Isabela starting to steal bites off his plate when he looked back over to Hawke. “You’re the only one of us who has had even a lick of experience of being in power. Can you help me?”

Her face melted into a grateful smile and he wanted to roll his eyes. It was not like him to ask for help.

“Of course, my love,” she said as genuinely as she could.

“Excuse me?” Isabela chimed in, her mouth half full of chicken. “I believe you recently met me as _Admiral_ Isabela? I’ve lead groups of people before, too, you know.”

His gaze shifted over to her. It really was stupid just how much he trusted her. “Fine,” he mumbled. “If you have suggestions, I would hear them.”

“Thank you,” she said, tilting her chin up in a gesture of pride. “First suggestion, Tevinter has traded with dwarves for centuries, mostly for lyrium. Now that there are significantly fewer mages in Eastern Tevinter, don’t be surprised when merchants come banging on your door asking why they’re not getting their money.”

“And Seheron,” Hawke added. “There are still slaves there, but I would worry about the Qunari.”

“You should just let ‘em have it.”

Fenris shook his head. “I do not care about Seheron, and if it means another loss for the magisters, I would let them have it. But you cannot just let the Qunari have something, they’d take it as a sign of weakness, an invitation to try and take the rest of the country.”

“How about this,” Hawke began, her eyes glimmering as the the cogs began spinning in her head. “You know the Qunari best, so when the time comes, you’ll deal with them. Isabela and I have our ways, we can work something out with Orzammar.”

He pondered the thought, seeing how it made sense, but feeling the weight of those responsibilities immensely. “I think what we need is Aveline and Varric.”

The two smiled sadly at his sentiment, letting silence linger over them in respect.

“But if you are going to meet the Qunari, you have to make your leadership look more official,” Isabela noted. “Which means you really have to present yourself as King. Really look like you crushed the magisters into the dust.”

“I’ve already done just that, something they couldn’t do for centuries. I think they would respect me enough to at least talk.”

“That’s the spirit.” Isabela winked. He gave her a weak smile, sticking his fork into the remains of his food, having gained his appetite back.

\--

_Dear Fenris,_

_Holy shit. I don’t think even I could come up with a story like yours. I just… Holy_ shit.

_I doubt I’ve heard all the details, because where I am the gossip mill is a little slow. Although right off the bat, I’d like to apologize for not being there. I hope you know that had I been able to, I would have been with you a hundred percent. I know Isabela came looking for me, and I can only assume she’s there with you. I was in custody of the Seekers of Truth. They questioned me about Hawke and the war, and that took a while, and then I was “escorted” (as they say) off to Orlais to tell my story to the Divine._

_I don’t know how much you know, but there was supposed to be a Conclave for peace between the Templars and Mages. Then it blew up and a lot of people died, and the sky ripped open and there’s demons everywhere. That’s what that weird green shit in the sky is, if you’ve seen it. Nothing to panic about. There was one survivor at the Conclave, and so far he’s been able to close these rifts the demons are coming out of._

_There’s a bunch of magical weirdness surrounding all that, but to put it simply, the entire world is in danger. The Left and Right Hands of the Divine have started The Inquisition to deal with all this, and that survivor is now being called The Herald of Andraste. Huh. If there’s anyone I’d compare to Andraste right now, it’d be you. I guess we can’t all get our way. But you’re being talked about sure enough. The rest of Thedas is looking at you. No pressure._

_I wish I could join you now in your fight, because I’m sure Minrathous isn’t going to be an easy rock to conquer. But this whole sky ripping open, I mean, I’d like to think I’m selfish enough to to pack up leave, but I can't turn my back on this. The Inquisition has few resources now, but if I were you, I'd expect contact from the advisors soon enough, most likely a noble by the name of Josephine Montilyet. Who knows, maybe if this thing gets off the ground we can help each other out._

_For now, I'll be in contact with you regarding any information that might be useful to you. From what we know already, these demon rifts are only in Ferelden and Orlais. So far._

_But enough about me, you have got to tell me everything! Although I suppose you're probably up to your neck in all the shit that comes with being King of Tevinter now. King. I have chills. No need to rush a response or anything, but I_ am _dying to know so I can write about this. How did that first fight in Perivantium go? What was it like running a sword into those magisters? How did it feel to actually kill a leader and call yourself King?_

_Nobody has heard much, but please tell me Hawke is with you. I know she wants to keep a low profile, but with all this glory, I expected her name to crop up somewhere. Or do I have to wait to hear that the King has taken a Queen?_

_One last thing, I've been in contact with Aveline and she wants to know how to write to you. Send her a letter to the Kirkwall barracks, would you?_

_Hopefully we can see each other soon. Maybe when all this demon shit blows over I'll consider a visit to Qarinus. It'd be nice to have the gang all back together, sitting on top of another smouldering pile one of us conquered._

_Until then,_

_Varric Tethras_

\--

One month on the throne and finally he was confident to send aid to the rest of the country. Those cities he had walked away from west of Verantium had been fighting hard, but buckling under the strain. Twenty thousand troops were sent in assistance. It was his first real decision since he had discussed his actions with Hawke and Isabela, and already it felt like he had accomplished something bigger. They had been right, but it still felt wrong to be occupying the palace and not with the soldiers. Or to be taking the throne while the rest of his people were out working nonstop to ensure the entire city’s survival. The magisters from Seheron had stopped flooding in, Isabela reported, but he suspected they hadn’t heard the end of them yet.

Since the victory, Fenris had been somewhat more merciful to those who had surrendered. The cages that once held slaves had been occupied by a handful of magisters caught begging for their lives as the soldiers advanced on them. The only things sparing them were their cries that they had valuable information, and so once Fenris stood in victory, he was informed of their capture. After weeks of their imprisonment, it was finally time to get this alleged information out of them.

One month after the victory and Fenris finally wore the crown. The same golden diadem Isabela had procured from the dead Lord magister sat atop his head as he sat on the seat in the middle of the Senate. Finally shirking his armour, he wore the fabrics that made up the vestments of the mages in court, stitched together to make something more suited for him. A wide sky blue sash adorned with simple gold embellishments was wrapped around his waist and over one shoulder paired with simple black trousers. Hawke had made it for him, stripping the fabric of all magical properties that otherwise would have made the feeling of his lyrium unbearable.

All his muscles were tense; he had avoided this. The throne certainly looked intimidating from the floor, but sitting in it was somehow worse. The crown on his head was not heavy physically, but he felt the weight of a thousand years of decadence in the face of slavery. He wasn’t alone in the room, Hawke standing right beside him in similar garb (however she could not wrap a sash to effectively cover herself to save her life, red fabric twisted and draped precariously over her chest). There was nothing but silence in the room before the front doors burst open and Isabela walked in, leading the first prisoner by a chain wrapped around handcuffs. Fenris supposed he should be satisfied to see the magisters wearing the chains, but he felt the sentiment hollow, like he never wanted to see chains ever again, period.

The magister was ragged after his time imprisoned, beard grown out and looking frail. He looked up at Fenris without a hint of defiance, eyes baleful and sunken. He met him with a cold stare.

“Well?” he began, deep voice filling the entire room. “You told my soldiers that you had valuable information. What do you have to say?”

The prisoner licked his lips, looking down at the floor. “Your Grace,” he began, his voice hoarse, and Fenris squirmed inwardly at the title, “you wish to take Tevinter, yes?”

“That is my goal,” he replied flatly.

“There is unrest in Minrathous,” he continued. “Please, I do not know the details, but the capital ensured you would not be able to hear anything after your first victory. The Archon feared the worst and he alone destroyed the bridge leading to the mainland and cut off the highway.”

He swallowed, still not taking his eyes off the prisoner. “Do you know what is happening there?”

“I do not, Your Grace. Only the Lord magister and his trusted confidants knew anything. The only knowledge I have is that the magisters in the capital have been in disagreement and that is where their energies have been focused.”

He narrowed his eyes, leaning forward in his seat. “So let me get this straight. A slave uprising begins in the South and Minrathous just closes its eyes and carries on. Why would the Archon turn his back on the rest of his country?”

“I do not know, Your Grace,” the prisoner repeated, bowing his head. Fenris finally acknowledged just how submissive he was being, wondering just how quickly the magisters might crumble when faced with a threat. Suddenly his story didn’t seem so far-fetched. “The only word I have heard around the Senate is Venatori. I am guessing it is a new faction of the capital’s government.”

Fenris straightened his back, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “And nobody else knows more?”

“Nobody else living, Your Grace.”

He looked to Isabela now, standing behind the magister, staring at his back. She met his gaze, smiling gently to await instruction. “Take him away. I will decide his fate later.”

Isabela took a bow, holding the magister’s chains again, leading him back out the door. They closed behind him and he let himself relax, slouching in his seat.

“Well, wasn’t expecting that,” Hawke muttered.

“I expected it,” Fenris replied. “All this time and not a word from Minrathous? It figures they had shut themselves away, but why?”

“We’ll have to look into this Venatori thing, then.”

“I’m not sure how.” Fenris stood from the throne, feeling relief roll over him as he did so. “Or if we even have time.”

—

_Dear Varric,_

_Well, that’s something. As long as the rest of Thedas doesn’t intervene and try to help the magisters and the slavers, I guess I’m in good shape._

_However the explosion happened, I regret to inform you that your main suspect cannot be guilty: Anders is with us. To make a long story short, Isabela made me. And in that regard, Merrill is also here._

_And Hawke. Yes, Hawke is here. She is safe. We have spoken of marriage, but it is doubtful that will happen any time soon._

_If the sky has ripped open and there are demons, I would bet ten sovereigns that the magisters are involved. We’ve learned that Minrathous has isolated itself from the rest of the country and there is something within the Senate known as the Venatori. If it helps you or this Inquisition any, I have a feeling these two things are connected. Unfortunately, that is all I know._

_It hasn’t been easy, but these people, Varric. If you write this story, do not make it about me. Make it about the former slaves, every single one of them rising up together to kill their masters. But I suppose I can tell you everything…_

_—_

Merrill’s eyes were threatening to bulge out of her head, but it was a trick Fenris never fell for. Two weeks later, and here he was, still on that throne, the feeling of it slowly becoming more comfortable. In front of him stood Merrill, behind her a gathering of maybe twenty Dalish elves, their faces tattooed but wearing the clothes of city elves. Fenris’s gaze moved over each one of their faces, and where he would normally be cold and calculating, he had slightly more warmth in his eyes for the Dalish.

“Please, Fenris. I know what you think of me, and of my people.”

“Enough,” he said, and sighed. “I understand what you want, Merrill. I cannot be a dictator and say no, but I am worried about what is in those woods that only a group of a hundred will face.”

“You mean?” she asked, her lips parting in surprise. “So you’ll let us go?”

“Of course I am allowing you, I cannot disallow you that freedom.”

An expedition, that’s what Merrill was calling it, but Fenris knew better than that. The Dalish that had been captured and enslaved ached for their freedom in a different way than the others. To them, the confines of the city were still not what they were used to. Fenris’s experience with the Dalish had not been for the best. In his first encounter with them, he had followed Hawke up to Sundermount outside of Kirkwall in repayment for her going along with his and that dwarf’s scheme. There the camp had treated them all with hostility, angry and judgemental stares coming from everyone but their Keeper, oblivious to it all. There had been mutterings about him, the _flat-ear_ , and all the superiority of the people became clear in under a minute. From there, he did not care at all for them.

But these elves were not of that clan, and they had fought just like everyone else for their freedom. Who was he to deny their home? It was more complicated than that. Merrill claimed that since arriving in the city, her magic had become stronger. Isabela had suggested to her that it could be from their proximity to the Arlathan forest. Fenris knew nothing of the area, as any elves that had ever been living there must have caught by slavers long ago. But with eastern Tevinter secured, it would be safe to at least have a look. Merrill had come to him with her small group saying they wanted to explore and report back, but somehow he knew they did not plan on reporting back too quickly, if ever. She proposed six months, but it was obvious they wanted her as their new Keeper, and that Arlathan was to be a more permanent place to migrate in. It only worried him if they were to disappear and never report back, hidden threats in the woods taking their lives away.

“Fenris,” Merrill said, looking at her toes. “I could never leave you and Hawke and Isabela forever. If nobody else would, I would come back for a time.”

He had to make some sort of offer. “If the Dalish can claim and defend the woods, I will extend my protection in the area. Establish something, and this kingdom will protect it.”

A smile spread across Merrill’s face. “Oh Fenris, thank you!” She spun around after her face split with a wide grin, tittering among the others in Elvish. She didn’t look back as the group excitedly left the room.

\--

The Dalish were determined to set out quickly, which meant a lot of long, teary goodbyes between her, Hawke and Isabela. The captain had barely been in the city as of late, staying around the docks to train new sailors. The steady flow of fish had been coming into the city and feeding the people sufficiently for some time, and Fenris had worked on swallowing what he could of it for sustenance despite hating it. Hawke knew how to prepare it with enough herbs and spices to make everything about it not taste so much like fish.

The ones who remained in the city still met every evening for supper together. For the most part, it was Fenris and Hawke until she invited Anders to join them. Merrill had been there until she set out with her new clan, and Isabela joined them when she could. Anders was pleasant enough, most of the banter in the evening being between him and Hawke.

Tonight was one of those nights, although there was a more pressing matter. Finally he had heard from Orzammar, one of their merchants writing to him asking for a meeting in a rather strongly-worded letter. The reserves in the palace were full of the mountainous riches the city possessed from trade. At least he hadn’t inherited debt.

“What could I possibly offer the dwarves?” Fenris asked, face in his hands over a half-eaten meal. It usually happened when he was this stressed. “I don’t even know how big the lyrium trade was, but they are going to want to sell what they’ve always been selling.”

“Why not ask if they can sell you food instead?” Anders joked. “Maker knows you’re tired of scarfing down fish.”

He cast him a sideways glare, but didn’t respond.

“Think they’ll offer us some nug farms?” Hawke chuckled.

“No, the only thing I can do is offer whatever the magisters were going to pay them for the inconvenience,” he rolled his eyes at it, but he knew it wasn’t an exaggeration, “and cut off all trade with them. We have money, but it will run out. We have to save it for when we need it.”

“You need revenue is what you need,” Anders said. “What’s a way to make money?”

“Can you eat a nug?” Hawke rambled.

“Hawke,” Fenris sighed, dismissing her. “There’s enough gold in this palace to mint into new sovereigns.”

“Or we could just sell that stuff. Don’t have to mint anything.”

“Again, that runs out.” Fenris stabbed into the fish, the lemon and garlic overpowering enough to make it tolerable, but he still would rather have anything else. He groaned, shaking his head in defeat. “Why can’t Varric give up on this Inquisition? We need him.”

Anders had tented his fingers in front of his face, a frown etched on his brow. Fenris didn’t pretend like he had forgotten Isabela’s promise to keep a figurative leash on the mage, but he would rather spare himself the argument with Hawke. “There’s no exportable resources that can be sustained. I don’t know.”

For now, the money they had would have to do.

—

_Dearest Aveline,_

_I hope this can get to you. We’re a long way from Kirkwall now._

_Thank you for the message you sent with Isabela, I can’t say I didn’t cry at least three times reading it. I’m so glad you’re still doing well in Kirkwall despite everything that’s happened. And all while starting a family! I suppose by now you’re probably already the greatest mom in the city. Congratulations! One day I will meet them, and I hope it’s very soon. Please tell me they have your hair. And if it’s a girl, you did name her after me, right?_

_I’m sure you’ve heard everything by now. Varric says “all of Thedas is looking at us”. That’s certainly being felt; the mail keeps pouring in of nobles trying to talk to Fenris, trying to strike up deals. He can hardly keep up, but what we need is support. Who knew a city containing hundreds of thousands of freed slaves needed so many resources?_

_Anyway, enough of this. I miss you so much, Aveline. You’ve been such a good friend to me and I want you to know you’re always welcome in Qarinus if it’s a journey you’re willing to take. I would try to make it to Kirkwall myself, but I doubt my return would be well received. Or anywhere outside of Tevinter for that matter. Is the Chantry still looking for me? Well, at least they know where to look now._

_We’ve had to borrow much from what was ravaged from the Tevinter magisters, but I’m enclosing this necklace for you. It’s purely decorative, not magical, and if you can get past who used to wear it, I hope you’d accept it as a gift._

_I’ll write again soon,_

_\- Hawke_

_—_

Fenris adjusted his sash, straightening the folds in the cloth and dusting off his armoured shoulder. All around him, Isabela’s Raiders wove around to prepare for docking the ship on the shores of Seheron. His eyes were fixed on the lush jungles on the island, the docks ready to receive their ship. Two days he had spent on the ship and he was still not ready for this meeting. A letter came just last week from Seheron’s Arishok requesting they meet immediately following his takeover of Qarinus. Out of everyone else on the ship, he should have been the least nervous, but he just didn’t know what to expect.

The ship had stopped at the docks and the crew members began to tie it down, Isabela’s commands shouted over the noise. Fenris was alone on the ship, leaving Hawke behind to deal with all the city’s problems interim. That, and she claimed she never wanted to deal with Qunari ever again. Things never seemed to end well when she did. Isabela, too, was not taking a single step on the island, leaving Fenris alone to meet with the Arishok.

As soon as he stepped onto the dock, two burly Qunari were waiting for him, wordlessly nodding for him to follow. They walked in silence through the crowded docks, barely a human or elf in sight. He wore his usual spiky armour on his arms and shoulders, but his chest plate sat over a tunic made of brighter fabric, a deep red covering his skin. His hair had not been cut since Kirkwall, trailing down past his shoulders, tied back up high on his head. As the Qunari lead him around the docks, all other workers did not seem to notice him at first, carrying on with their business. Eventually he felt their glances as they moved to the streets of the town.

They didn’t walk for long until they were at the gates of a modest looking building. The gates slowly swung open and the two Qunari left him to watch as the Arishok walking down the front flight of stairs. He appeared no larger than his brethren, a stern but blank look on his face, white hair tied back in braided rows on his head. Curiously, he did not have any horns like the others did.

“Shanedan, Arishok,” Fenris said, locking eyes with the Qunari.

“Greetings, Serah Fenris,” he replied. “We must not delay. Follow me.”

He climbed the stairs after them, moving through the large doors and into a simple, care room which contained a large table in the middle. The Arishok stood on one side, and Fenris on the other. On the table was a map of Seheron, coloured pegs decorating it in different regions.

“It is my understanding that you have taken over Qarinus. The slaves have risen up and killed their masters.”

“That is correct.”

The Arishok’s eyes were cast down at the map. “Many of the magisters who were occupying Seheron have left for the mainland. Have you dealt with them?”

“They have shown up on the shores of Qarinus wishing to fight back. Those we could find have been killed.”

The Arishok was still, eyes moving all over the map as if he were strategizing. “Their fleeing has helped the Qunari take over Seheron. Our spies have reported that many still on this island are planning to leave it to save what they have left in Tevinter. This would make our takeover of the island much more simple. All because of you.”

Fenris met the Arishok’s gaze again. “What would you propose, Arishok?”

“It has been difficult to find information from Minrathous as the capital has cut off much of its trade. Spies cannot stow aboard any ships. But if you are currently at war with the magisters, then we have a common enemy.” The Arishok placed one finger over the bottom of the map showing Minrathous. “I find it hard to believe that an escaped slave has the capacity to strategize like an army general, but still you have lead hundreds of thousands to victory. I cannot deny your strength, basalit-an.”

That he did not expect, and Fenris let his eyebrows raise just slightly in surprise. “It is an honour, Arishok.”

“This is what I propose,” he continued. “The Qunari will ally with your cause to defeat the magisters in Minrathous. Before that happens, we require support from your soldiers so that we may take Seheron.”

“And so it would bring an end to the war.”

“Yes.”

“What would happen after that?” Fenris watched the Arishok carefully, ready for the downside to the alliance. He knew he was about to hear something involving converting his people to the Qun. They were easy targets for the Qunari to spread their doctrine, and while he had no objections to anyone converting, he did not want an invasion. The only way he was leaving this discussion was if they could guarantee peace.

“You worry we will convert your people.”

“Only if it is their only option.”

The Arishok shifted in his stance, crossing his arms over his chest. “Establishing Seheron will take too many of our resources. Only if your people come to the Qunari will they be converted. If and when you take Minrathous, we can sign a treaty for peace.”

It was all he wanted. “Then allow my name on the Llomerryn Accord be the end of this war.”

The Arishok seemed pleased with the answer. “Then let this alliance be.” He walked around the table past Fenris and towards the doors. He opened the doors again and Fenris turned around to follow, walking back out onto the steps. “We shall be in contact soon.”

“Panahedan, Arishok. Anaan esaam Qun.” Fenris turned away and walked down the steps and back on the path towards the docks. He finally let his held breath loose, surprised at how quickly and easily the conversation had been. Then again, the Qunari were not ones for over complicating things. As well as he knew how they acted and behaved, in his position, he did not know what to expect. But his power was enough to capture their attention, and dare he say it, even impress them.

When he returned to the ship, Isabela was sitting up in the crow’s nest, spotting him from the height. She climbed down on the ropes once he was back on the deck.

“Well that was quick,” she remarked, walking with him towards the captain’s wheel.

“It seemed the Arishok already had a plan.”

The crew was already beginning to untie the ropes that had been holding them to the dock. Two days all for a meeting that took perhaps an hour, but it was better than being tied down for any longer.

“So what is the plan?”

“We’re allies now. If our armies help them take Seheron, theirs will help us take Minrathous. Then the war is over.”

Isabela nodded, placing her hands idly on the wheel as the ship began to cast off. “I met that guy once. Did you know he helped the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight?”

“ _That_ was Sten?” he asked, shocked.

“It _was_ Sten, you know how they don’t have names. But he was with the Warden when she came into the Rose in Denerim on business or whatever. Can’t honestly remember what exactly. He was… Well, Qunari.”

Suddenly the thought of the Arishok following the Hero of Ferelden wandering into a brothel brought a smile to his face and he shook his head. Perhaps it was not something to bring up again in their further correspondence.

—

_Dear King Fenris,_

_Allow me to introduce myself as Josephine Montilyet, Advisor to the Inquisition. I am writing to you to congratulate you on your recent victories over Tevinter and to get us acquainted before moving on to business._

_The Inquisition wishes to officially support you and your cause. This may mean forging an alliance if you so choose to. The Chantry in Orlais has declared its support for you, mostly for your defeat of the magisters who they found heretical. The Chantry however does not support us, and have declared us as heretics as well, so before we go any further, you should keep that in mind._

_I hope you will consider our offer._

_Sincerely,_

_Lady Josephine Montilyet_

_—_

_Dear Lady Montilyet,_

_Thank you for your letter. I do not know how we may be of assistance to the Inquisition with our resources stretched thin as they are. Our military is currently wrapped up in other affairs, so I do not have a full force to support the Inquisition with. Varric has informed me of the situation, and if there is a tear in the Veil large enough to allow such a plague of demons into the world, it would be foolish of me to not try and remedy it._

_This is the first I’ve heard of the Chantry supporting us. I’m assuming their support just means words. If an alliance with their enemies in the Inquisition means any chance of getting supplies to Tevinter, I would take the Chantry’s backlash any day. They have never done myself or my compatriots much good._

_I would appreciate to know what you have in mind._

_Regards,_

_Fenris_

_—_

Months had passed. Most of the army was now split between the West and Seheron, leaving the city rather sparse. With the armies off, there had been more food for those that remained in Qarinus, and in the resurrected marketplace now used for distribution, chicken, fish, breads, fruits and vegetables flowed plentifully. It always took Fenris by surprise just how self-sufficient a population could be, but he supposed slaves had always been self-sufficient. Slaves were the ones farming and cooking for their masters. A group of people who had mastered survival while in chains would have very few problems doing so while free. Qarinus was not a city ruled by anyone, truly, Fenris was just there to manage picking up the pieces in order for life to go on. He was there for appearances, he was there as someone to contact with matters such as aiding the Inquisition.

The letter from the Montilyet noblewoman sat on the desk as he handed off the letter he had written in response (rather Hawke had, her handwriting appearing much more _kingly_ than his) back to the raven that had delivered it. Such a curious creature. They existed in Qarinus, but Fenris wasn’t sure they would be receptive to anyone but the magisters using them. Some had to still be loyal to them, he supposed.

The sky was still shattered with the green flickering light always visible through clouds. That morning after breakfast was spent in the streets, the golden crown off of his head, long white hair now tied in a loose braid over his shoulder that Hawke had done the night before. Everyone who saw him beamed, a hundred greetings coming his way at all times. He spoke with those who had taken initiative to distribute fish caught from the docks, waiting for the worst news, only to hear the, “oh, actually…” For once something was looking up.

Hawke didn’t leave the palace much, resorting to odd shut-in behaviour that puzzled him. She had never once been like this in Kirkwall, in fact, she was rarely at home save for the evenings. Even when there was nothing to do, she was at least outside. Now she spent her days redecorating the throne room, cleaning up the rubble and hanging banners with the insignia that had first been seen in Perivantium. Each time he invited her to come down to the city, she had casually declined, saying she had something to do. He didn’t press her for an answer. 

He still had the sneaking suspicion she didn’t want to emphasize her relationship with him because she was a mage, the very people his army had just eradicated. She didn’t want to tarnish his image, but she would never say it. So they addressed it with silence. Yet she was always there next to him when he sat on his throne to hear and judge all those who came to him. Sometimes he wouldn’t see her all day, only in the evenings while they ate and then their bedchamber. Perhaps he had been distant with her, but there was a lot on his shoulders. Still, he was beginning to miss her.

Isabela was in the palace when he ended his trip to the city early and returned home. He hadn’t seen her in all of two weeks, she out on a short voyage to Seheron bringing over soldiers. She stood in the front foyer admiring the new banners hung up all around. When the door opened, she turned around to catch his eye, giving him a wicked grin.

“Hey there, milord,” she teased. Her godawful hat was back on, but she wore the clothes he had always known her to wear, short white tunic and long boots. Her daggers were still on her.

“Isabela,” he greeted.

“I guess you’ll be wanting to know how your soldiers are doing?” she asked, inviting him to walk alongside her.

“That would be helpful. It is difficult to keep in touch with people who cannot read and write.” One of the many banes of his existence as a leader, but at least Isabela did not laugh at this, just nodded her head in understanding.

“I suppose that’s true. I guess I could just say they’re doing fine. A lot of magisters left Seheron leaving the rest open season for the Qunari. The Qunari I did manage to talk didn’t have much to say about where a lot of them went, but I think it’s safe to say most of them tried to get to Minrathous.”

They walked into the hallways winding, leading to rooms he had never even looked into. Isabela seemed to be leading him somewhere.

“Hawke’s in one of these rooms. Really torn it apart, does she get out much anymore?”

He smiled weakly at her comment, but said nothing in response as the pirate stepped ahead of him and pushed open a door that had been half-closed.

“Welcome back,” came Hawke’s voice as Fenris stood in the doorway. He was surprised by the room, seeing it absolutely filled with everything gold and shiny. Trinkets of all sorts lined the walls, shelves upon shelves of glass cases containing jewelry. Fenris stepped into the room both amazed and disgusted by the opulence. He really needed to see what else the mansion had to offer.

“What have you got there?” Isabela asked, sitting down next to Hawke on the red velvet settee in the middle of the room. She had a couple of amulets sitting on her lap, and one in her hand, inspecting it closely. On every single one of her fingers were flashy rings, her wrists over-adorned with bangles and jewels.

“They’re very interesting,” Hawke said, still half in thought. “Strange magical properties and stuff. Nothing I’ve ever seen before.” She placed all three pendants into a pouch on her belt and stood up, facing Fenris. “There’s something else I’ve found, but I think I need you to tell me what it is.”

Before he could respond, she had taken to a corner of the room, returning with a long pipe-like structure adorned with engraved gold, the glass black, and two tubes extended from the middle of it. Isabela laughed when she brought it out, and Fenris joined her, cracking a smile.

“What?” Hawke asked innocently.

“Didn’t think I’d see one of those again,” Isabela remarked. “It’s a hookah, sweet thing.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Rivaini smoking instrument.”

“It’s not Rivaini,” Fenris interrupted. “The magisters made this up a long time ago, but I don’t doubt it’s popular in Rivain.”

Hawke set the pipe down, staring at it with one eyebrow raised. “How, exactly?”

“I’ll show you how it’s done, we’ll have to find something to smoke out of it.”

“You go ahead,” Fenris said dismissively, but Isabela stood up and crossed her arms. “No, I think we need some good catch-up time. It doesn’t have to be _elfroot_ or anything, just some normal shisha. Come on.”

He shrugged one shoulder in response.

“Discuss politics over it or something. Looks like we’ve got plans tonight.” Hawke shot her a grin as the three of them left the room. Walking behind him with their arms linked around each other, she and Isabela chatted, their voices echoing in the empty halls. Fenris wondered if he had seen a place where the magisters could have stored their tobacco…

When they returned to the foyer, there was someone else standing there, and his face lit up when she turned to face him.

“Finally my new crew mates have stopped being so seasick, but-“ Isabela was cut off when Fenris stopped in his tracks.

Raenys looked at him, her eyes tired, but smiling sheepishly through her obvious exhaustion. She was a sight he hadn’t seen for months, not since she had hastily rode off west from Verantium.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying politely, but the twinge of a smile made the gesture not entirely serious.

“You’re alive,” he blurted in surprise. “I… I am glad.”

The elf woman’s skin was darker than he last remembered her, showing she had clearly spent much time out in the sun. “So am I. Things got a bit complicated out there, but I do have good news. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“No, I’m sure this place doesn’t have anywhere,” Isabela responded jokingly, but was only met with a confused stare. Instead she extended her arms in a bow. “Captain Isabela,” she said.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Raenys.” She still eyed the pirate with suspicion, but her attention returned to Fenris who began to usher them to what was dubbed the war room.

He hadn’t seen her for more than half a year, but she had arrived in the city that morning, claiming an empty house near the docks for her and Silas. She appeared weary after all her time away, but underneath it all, there was an excitement in her. They moved to the war room, the large stone table covered by a map which seemed to be necessary in every war room he had been in lately being the centrepiece for their discussion. Raenys had a large leather bag slung across her chest, which she opened, dumping loose stacks of paper onto the map.

“You’ll need to go through these,” she said plaining as Fenris picked up a single piece of paper, inspecting the words on it.

“What are they?”

“Trade agreements.”

All eyes were on the elf woman as she began to straighten out some papers into piles. “When I got to Marnas Pell, the slaves told me that the bridge to Minrathous was destroyed. Things were rough out there, slaves were treated worse than ever. I stayed only for a week before the fights began to break out.”

“I sent soldiers out to the West after taking the city here,” Fenris added. “But I imagine those cities could have used that help sooner.”

“That’s true,” she said, trying to repress the derision that rose in her voice, and looked down at the papers. “But there wasn’t much else you could do.” A single paper was in her fingers now, her eyes studying the words written on it. “So I went back to the places already conquered. There are still people there defending it from incoming slavers trying to take it back. They have elected temporary leaders. The Soporati that stuck around are starting to teach people to read.”

Raenys places the paper down, continuing her story.

“So these are trade proposals mostly from Nevarran and Antivan merchants. If you sign them, they’re agreements.”

“We haven’t the coin for ongoing trade, I’m afraid,” Fenris mumbled.

“I know. Which is why you should read them. The other cities are just scraping by on what they can cultivate, and the merchants know they need more. Lots of these, I think this pile…” She took one stack of the papers, thumbing through them, identifying them through pure memory. “Yes, this many, are for things like livestock, lumber, stone, general _equipment._ Things that are sustainable. The elected leaders set these up with traders that came north after the cities were liberated. These traders just want money.”

Fenris stood shocked, impressed. Hawke was already beginning to read through some of them.

“These other ones,” Raenys motioned to the larger stack of papers. “Are for when we have sustainable supplies to trade with.”

“This is…” Fenris said, staring at the papers. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“Don’t do it yet, I’ve only seen a few of them, and they’re not exactly generous. We can go through and weed out the shit offers and maybe keep them aside if those merchants ever come here, and sign off on the good ones.” Isabela and Hawke moved to either side of Fenris, taking their own piles of paper to go through.

Soon the room was silent save for the shuffling sounds of paper being sorted into piles. Isabela was pouting as she read through the offers, the occasional sigh echoing through the room. It was surely not what she wanted to be spending a day off doing. Fenris, however, was eating up the letters he read, although he had no idea how to tell a good deal from a bad one. He didn’t know how much money was in the reserves. Eventually he stopped considering how good the offers were and just focused on what he knew was needed. Livestock, always a good place to start. A hundred milking cows for ten sovereigns each, including transporting them to Qarinus. Seeds for tomatoes, corn, wheat, peppers, five sovereigns per thousand. Horses, sheep, more chickens, cattle, assortments for herbs and spices he had never even heard of before. Hours went by and he was overwhelmed.

Fenris cursed in Tevene which attracted the attention of the others. He was seated in a cushioned chair, good and bad piles of letters on either side of him. “Can we not just approve the not obviously bad offers and be done with this?”

“This is very important, _dear,_ ” Hawke chuckled, but she stifled a yawn into her hand.

“We need Varric,” Isabela sighed, leaning her head back in exhaustion. “Varric might even save us some coin.”

Raenys just shrugged, but she stood up from her spot on the floor, taking a small bundle of papers with her to Fenris’s side. “Alright, these are ones I would definitely take, mostly because I set them up.”

He glanced over the one on top, already seeing it better than some of the others. A hundred milking cows for _seven_ sovereigns each including transportation to Qariuns. If he bought two hundred, it went down to five sovereigns each. “You set these up?”

“I did. I was back in Perivantium for a while. That’s where most of the traders are right now. And the people there were spending the coin on food, but some of us managed to work in some trades for things that will last. Perivantium’s farms were doing well by the time I left.”

“And elsewhere?”

“Managing. You can decide on distribution when you’ve heard from the other cities.”

Fenris looked back to the papers, knowing it would take time to really get the best use out of the coin the city had. Time he didn’t really have. “Very well. I’ll need to find a quill.”

The hours stretched on into the night, his hand cramping from signing so many papers and assigning them to messengers. Hawke had left with Isabela to cook dinner for the night. He was satisfied with what he had arranged, for the most part, once he got past the idea of actually giving up the riches within the palace rather than sitting on them. Without any revenue, it was hard to let go of so much - he had to guess nearly half the reserves by the time each agreement was met - but he remembered just how well they were doing now. With the increase in supplies, the country may become bountiful and eventually they would not need to rely on coin at all.

“Could I really live in a place where money isn’t a thing?” Isabela pondered over a glass of wine on the back porch that overlooked the docks and the sea. The four of them sat on intricate golden furniture adorned with black velvet cushions, the hookah pipe found in the storeroom in the middle of them, Hawke using her magic to heat the coals sitting on top. Isabela had talked them into it, finding the sticky combination of tobacco and molasses. Hawke and Isabela passed the nozzle back and forth between each other, the air filling with the soft and sweet smelling smoke. It had a hint of vanilla in it as well, piquing his curiosity.

Fenris coughed the instant the smoke entered his lungs. Isabela laughed, but Hawke just demonstrated how slow he had to take it. Raenys caved and joined them as well as their chatter took them into the night. It was clear skies, the stars shining brilliantly overhead, slowly becoming obscured by the smoke surrounding them.

“To prosperity,” Hawke toasted right after the third bottle of wine had been split between them. Four glasses clinked together.

“And down with Minrathous,” Raenys added just before they drank.

“I’m _sure_ you want to be thinking about that? Eh, Fenris?” Isabela teased.

He shot her a dark look, but it softened quickly under the influence of the wine. Hawke was curled up, leaning on him while one arm was around her.

“And resist the thought of killing more magisters?” Hawke answered. “I think it’s his favourite thing to think about.”

“You aren’t wrong.”

“Remember how we met?”

Raenys laughed sharply and leaned forward in her seat. “I have to hear this.”

Hawke’s face lit up even more than it had from the wine flushing her cheeks. “Oh, it’s good. So, it was in Kirkwall, eight years ago- Maker, it was eight years ago!” She sat up straighter in his seat, careful with her wine, and holding out a hand for the nozzle Isabela then passed to her. Hawke frowned as she began to piece the story together while taking a drag on the pipe. She exhaled a cloud of white and a smile crept across her face.

“Eight years ago. I was with my brother and our friend Varric in Kirkwall-“

“And me!” Isabela interrupted. “I was there, too.”

“Oh, right! Anyway, so we get this job from some dwarf to retrieve something in an abandoned house. Turned out Fenris set us up to be ambushed.”

He rolled his eyes. “And what was the first thing I said to you?”

“That’s not even the best part,” Hawke continued, holding up one finger to silence him. “You come around a corner and rip out a slaver’s heart, and we’re just standing there stupidly.”

“A hell of an entrance,” Raenys commented with a laugh. “I suppose I don’t know what I expected.”

“Of course you just walked up and apologized, explained your situation. And for whatever reason, we agreed to help you.”

“You fancied to extort me, I believe.”

Isabela snorted. “Not like it was worth it.”

He scowled at her. The whole time, Raenys’ gaze moved to each of them as they spoke, curious and amused expression at the dynamic between them.

“You gave me a couple sovereigns and agreed to follow me around for a year.” Hawke passed off the tube back to Isabela and leaned back into Fenris. “Which, of course, went on a little longer than planned. Guess I was just charming.”

“Impressive,” Raenys remarked. “And this,” she gestured to the both of them, “I guess happened from there.”

Hawke flushed even redder as she giggled. “Natural, I suppose. Despite the whole mage thing.”

“You blatantly and horribly flirted with him after we cleared out that mansion of his,” Isabela laughed. “I was surprised you didn’t get stabbed.”

Hawke covered her face as the other women laughed.

“I don’t blame you,” Raenys said, voice turning sly as her eyes narrowed. “Isn’t there just something about a man who can rend another’s internal organs from their bodies?”

It was Fenris’s turn to blush now.

“Yes! I don’t know what it is,” Hawke said, placing a hand on his chest. “It’s so _visceral._ Truly sexy.”

Fenris glared at both of them, but he began to smile. “I don’t want to know,” he sighed in defeat.

The conversation steered to Isabela’s direction as she recounted a string of lovers who all had their own signature violent ways of dealing with foes. Eventually Raenys stood up to leave them, just as the pirate was dozing off on the sofa. Hawke covered her with a light blanket before she and Fenris turned in for the night, the stacks of signed trade agreements sitting on the writing desk in their room and promising brighter days.

—

_Dear Hawke,_

_A lot of shit’s gone down, and to put it simply, the Inquisition needs your help._

_Corypheus has returned and Haven was attacked. I have no idea how any of this happened, but he was the one who caused the Breach in the first place. He was dead, wasn’t he? We killed him. It doesn’t matter now.  He has a cult following now from Tevinter, the Venatori they call themselves, as you said. I didn’t have time to tell you before they suddenly attacked. They were holed up in Redcliffe converting the mage rebellion before we stepped in. Shit, this has all happened so fast._

_The Grey Wardens have been acting strangely ever since the Inquisition started, and a lot of people are suspecting they’re up to something (whether willing or not). You have connections to the Wardens. I haven’t been able to get in touch with Carver at all._

_The Inquisition has moved to a fortress called Skyhold. Haven was wiped out when then Templars came with Corypheus. Nothing’s left standing._

_It feels wrong to take you away, but you might be our only chance against this. I’ll try not to keep you for long, and I hope the best for Fenris._

_Always yours,_

_Varric Tethras_

_P.S. You can become a dragon now, right? Like that old creepy witch we met on Sundermount could and you had joked about it? I’m going to need to see that._

_—_

“Look, I’m going! You can’t stop this, Fenris!”

Hawke stood in her full armour in the middle of their bedroom, a leather pack slung over her shoulder. Outside it was raining, the curtains blowing in the strong wind. The letter Varric had sent was on the table, short and to the point; that’s how they knew it was serious. She shifted her weight, hard gaze still aimed at Fenris.

“This country needs you, Hawke. What if the Venatori are to attack us because of what happened in Haven?”

“Has Minrathous done _anything_ to us since we arrived?” she snapped. “They don’t care. They don’t care that their own country has been sacked, they’re busy worshipping a darkspawn magister to take over the world! Or whatever magisters want to do.”

“Hawke, I,” Fenris paused when she still glared at him, his voice dropping to a whisper. “At your side…”

Her eyes cooled and glanced at the floor. “This is my responsibility. I was responsible for all of this.”

“Hawke,” Fenris repeated.

“It’s for my brother,” she mumbled grimly. “If for nobody else it’s for my brother. I can’t stay.”

He knew there was nothing he could say that would make her change her mind. With all the pressure building up, she had been his only solace. With Minrathous looming across the Nocen sea festering with Venatori supporters, every day was spent waiting for the worst. Another letter from one of the Inquisition’s advisors, Leliana, detailed more about this alleged cult. All of the details coming from a Tevinter mage who had curiously allied himself with the cause. House Pavus. Fenris had never heard of it.

Fenris drew closer to her, fingers smoothing over her face to cup her cheek. She looked up, tears in her eyes threatening to spill. She wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him in for a tight hug. He felt her warmth radiating as he held her, her frame slight under all the armour. She pulled away to kiss him gently, but the hunger grew, their mouths becoming desperate. He held her close, and when she pulled away, he could still taste her on his lips. Her tears had fallen down her face now.

“I promise I’ll come back to you,” she said quietly, the immense weight of sadness on her choked voice. “I promise you I won’t die.”

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to look her in the eyes and agree, no, you won’t die, but worry tugged at his stomach. He knew her too well, knew just how she would put herself in harm’s way for another’s sake. He didn’t think she _would_ die, but he doubted her ability to look out for herself most of all. She was still in his arms and he refused to let go until she took a step back. Her warmth left his hands as she walked away.

“I love you, Fenris,” she said.

“I love you, Hawke.”

She swallowed the rest of her tears, turning her head to the open window. With heavy legs, she moved towards it, placing her hands on the ledge, bowing her head as a light glow began to encircle her. She shrank in size, the light blinding until she was that tiny songbird perched on the windowsill. She didn’t look back as she spread her wings and took flight.

Gone. He watched as she disappeared into the sky. He was alone.


	6. King Pt. 2

_Dear King Fenris,_

_It has been too long since we spoke, and I apologize. As you may have heard, the Inquisition has suffered quite the blow. But let us talk business._

_Since we have learned of our enemy’s true face, it seems our concerns now overlap. Our spymaster Leliana has proposed sending spies to Minrathous to gather information, and we would gladly share it with you if it would help you move on the city. As far as what you can help us with, I must say your eventual march on Minrathous would benefit the defeat of Corypheus greatly._

_Leliana tells me she has sent your a letter with all the information we know about the Venatori already. We will feed you as much information as we can, and perhaps when our forces grow stronger, we can send the soldiers to take it once and for all._

_Hawke has arrived to Skyhold and she has settled in working on our issues with the Grey Wardens. I am sure she will be in touch with you soon._

_Sincerely,_

_Lady Josephine Montilyet_

_\--_

He hadn’t seen Isabela since he told her that Hawke left. She was quiet when he did, eyes downcast with a worried frown. She didn’t say much of anything, just gave him a hug and disappeared. Now he was wishing she were there with him if only for the familiar company. The armies were starting to come back from Seheron, ships sailing in with weary soldiers reporting success, the Qunari easily taking over what the magisters once had, staking their claim. Fenris had managed to spend a few days distracted in writing the Arishok a long letter with all the details on Venatori action as reported by the Inquisition. At least there was information now, although he had not heard from any spies who had allegedly tried to get into the city. He supposed he just had to be patient.

Patience was not something he was good at. He remembered Kirkwall, how he spent six years waiting for Danarius, and every day of that six years was spent in agonizing anticipation and anxiety. When he could sleep, he slept in his armour, lest hunters burst through the dilapidated door. Six years were spent constantly looking over his shoulder, each day occupied with thoughts that his master could be just around the corner. It made his chest ache when he succumbed to the panic, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath coming ragged, head swimming, dizzy, feeling like death was creeping up on him, all of it happening without reason. It was always in the privacy of the broken in mansion in the bedroom, and it always left him in a cold sweat, shaking, until he could pass out from the exhaustion it caused him. Even in the best of times, it just made him itch constantly.

And then when Danarius died, heart crushed in his own hand, the panic went away, but was slowly replaced with dread and an emptiness at being betrayed by his own flesh and blood. But Hawke had been there, patient with him so long after their first encounter crumbled into dust the instant it happened.

That anxiety he felt his entire life after his escape was now back with the prospect of Minrathous. He found himself wishing for the days back when he knew nothing, the entire capital shrouded in mystery. But now there was a cult, an ancient magister trying to make himself a god, all with red lyrium littered in their wake. For the first time in a long time, he felt the phantom presence of enemies behind him, and even when he was perfectly alone in the palace, he was looking over his shoulder, ready to strike. He thought the end of uncertainty would relieve him somewhat, but it just became worse. His episodes of panic were coming back when he spent so much time isolated in his war room. There he just paced around the table, trying to glare a hole into the map where the capital was marked, as if that would help the situation. He didn’t go outside much anymore, just to the balconies of the palace, convinced of enemies in the streets. The only time he did was to ask former soldiers to act as guards for him.

Guards. He now had guards doing nothing but watching the palace, looking imposing but at least watching his back. If anything, it was good to have another soul in the same room with him, and he often spent his time making smalltalk with whoever was there. They wanted no payment, offering their protection to their leader and saviour if it made him feel more secure. For a while, it worked. The war room didn’t feel so unnervingly still and silent as he wrote letters to the Inquisition, to Hawke, to the Arishok, whoever else could read in his kingdom.

Nearly two months since Hawke left him, and there had been a handful of letters between them. She had nothing of note to report, just that she loved him and that she was safe. It helped to hear from her, to read her graceless and impossibly messy scrawl on the page when he knew full well she could write like the true noblewoman she was. But this was more her, and he appreciated that she thought to do this for him.

In the absence of Hawke, Isabela and even Merrill, it left one person to hang around in his general vicinity. Anders had been running his clinic out of the opposite end of the palace where Fenris spent his time, and in the time they had been there, they had rarely seen each other. The mage at least had the capacity to respect his space, but still Fenris felt he should keep him close. Since being alone, he did however take it upon himself to attempt friendly visits. It was just humorously pathetic to him, recalling all the jealous jabs he received when they spent time together in Kirkwall. Not that Fenris had been particularly friendly with him, and whenever Anders tried to engage in smalltalk, it was strange. Perhaps he just felt a great amount of guilt for even being there still. Fenris wished he would quit the self-flagellation, he had more than earned his worth.

It didn’t mean he was entirely trustworthy. With Isabela gone, she wasn’t there to monitor Anders like she had promised she would way back when they first reunited. Whenever she was on long trips away from the city, Hawke would step in to check on him, if only to make Fenris feel better. In their absence, he sent his new guards to do the same, but apparently they had been too obvious in their intentions, for the mage had come storming to his war room. Foolishly, Fenris allowed the guards to let him in.

“So, any reason why I had your guards harassing me when I with a patient?” he started, finally skipping the chatter as he faced him. Much like everyone else, Anders had neglected cutting his hair, still tired up the way it always was. His amber eyes were narrowed at Fenris who just returned a blank stare. “You know, I was in the middle of helping a woman with what she thought was the flu.”

“Was it?” he asked conversely, not really sure why.

“No, she was pregnant. But that’s not the point, the point is that they could at least wait until I was finished. They thought I was hurting her.”

“A slave has never exactly seen magic used in any way that wasn’t hurting. Can you blame them?”

He sighed, frustratedly. “No, but their interruption could have seriously hurt her.”

“I’ll tell them to be careful next time.” Fenris turned around, ready to resume his pacing over the map in the middle of the room, but Anders wasn’t finished.

“Sorry, next time? What’s going on?”

“They were just checking up on you, since Isabela and Hawke aren’t around.” He wasn’t looking at him, leaning over the map, looking busy in thought, hoping it would make him give up and leave.

“Checking up on me? Is that why they visit me?” Anders looked positively disgusted when Fenris begrudgingly lifted his head to look at him.

“Perhaps not the only reason, but, for me, yes.”

He expected Anders to be angry with him, but instead he was met with an exasperated sigh. The mage folded his arms close to himself. “After all this time, Fenris. After all we’ve been through, you still can’t trust me not to turn into a hellbent maniac. I don’t even have Justice anymore. I’m not an _abomination_ anymore.”

Fenris straightened his back, really not wanting to have this argument. “You’re in the presence of people who have been crushed by magic for centuries. If anything, my vigilance is for their sake.”

“Fenris, please, what can I do make you trust me enough to not have me watched all the time?”

He stared at Anders, feeling pity for him, which in turn made him feel guilt for what he was about to say. “There’s something else. My guards mentioned all the empty bottles of lyrium potions scattered around your work area.”

Anders seemed to freeze up, eyes widening just slightly, but he tried to fight the reaction. “I have to do a lot,” he said through a stammer, and Fenris wasn’t buying it.

“Hawke has told me of mages depending too much on lyrium and the dangers it causes. I’ve decided to post guards in your clinic while you work, but they won’t harass your patients again.”

Anders just stared at him in disbelief, but he bowed his head in reluctant acceptance. “Fine. But perhaps you should employ the same precautions when your queen returns, your Grace, if it is really mages you worry so much about.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, not wanting to argue, and gestured to the guards in his room to escort Anders out. He looked back at the map when he heard the door close, once again alone in the room. He gave a shuddering sigh, suddenly feeling his insides twisting and tugging at each other. Gripping the table tightly, he stood up, eyes closed, deep breath. _Hawke, please come back soon._

_—_

It started with headaches shortly after the city had been taken. Anders hesitated doing anything too strenuous in the weeks that followed, attributing it all to stress after such a long, hard battle. He hadn’t said a word to anyone, knowing it would blow over soon. Along with the headaches, his dreams had become more and more vivid, bright colours burning into his memory long after he had awoken. The climate, perhaps, so much magic still lingering in the air. The Veil was still thin.

But the dreams turned into very familiar nightmares. The same nightmares that came to him just after his Joining, the voices of Darkspawn whispering in his head. Again, stress, the Veil was thin, and…

Eventually the nightmares stopped, and his head was clear for a few blissful days. After that, he didn’t know exactly when the next part began. He had been working with those still unhealthy, treating the injured in his new clinic when someone pointed out what a nice song he was humming along to. He hadn’t realized he was doing it, stopping all sound coming from his mouth and listening. Really listening. And there it was in the back of his mind, a song in twinkling soft notes. As soon as he acknowledged it, it felt like it had always been there comforting him, driving him forward when they fought for Qarinus.

So he decided to ignore what it meant. It was even pleasant.

\--

_Dear sis,_

_Caught wind of your involvement with the Inquisition and the Wardens. I doubt Alistair told you about me because he doesn’t know where I am at the moment. I’m sure he wanted to spare you that fact, but I’m fine. I’m alive. Just like him, I’ve been exiled from the rest of the Wardens because of this demon nonsense. I hear it all the time, this Calling. But I’ll try to get through it. It can’t be real._

_It’s been so long, hasn’t it? Must be eons because, what is this I hear? You’re Queen of Tevinter now? And Fenris is your King? Bullshit. I’m still calling it bullshit. But congratulations on killing all those magisters. Seemed like a bunch of dirty snakes._

_Well, there’s not much that I can say about myself. Can’t even say where I am lest this gets intercepted (and I don’t trust these bloody birds in the slightest). But know that I’m safe and I’m managing. I just hope you can do something to put an end to this madness. I’m counting on you, sis._

_Love,_

_Carver_

_—_

The war room was poisoned. He had spent so much time stewing in there that now he could not bare to see the inside of it anymore, tarnishing any functionality it had. No word, not for nearly another month. Hawke had not written to him in that long, and he was starting to expect the worst. Every time a messenger came to him, his heart stopped, expecting to read the worst on the letters handed to him. Most of the time, the letters contained good news, reports written in bad handwriting from people just learning to read and write. The trade agreements had gone smoothly, farms were prospering everywhere he held control. The appointed leaders of each city were getting on well with managing daily affairs. And yet with all the relief he got form reading these reports, it was fleeting, and his mind was instantly back to where it shouldn’t be.

He knew it was no way to be. With Minrathous and the Venatori looming on the horizon, he shouldn’t have been cowering inside his palace, and somewhere along that line of thinking, he had begun to shape up. His position as a king had nothing to do with the people who were getting on just fine by themselves. He was meant to fight for their freedom which had not been truly won yet, not until the Archon’s head was on a pike. Fenris had a duty to his people still, and it was far from over.

Just as it had done so in Kirkwall, wine helped to take the edge off. The cellars under the palace were grossly overstuffed with some of the finest wines in the country, and Fenris poured himself a bottle throughout the day, the alcohol bolstering him to be his best. Slowly he was back in the war room for short periods of time, talking with his guards who didn’t have bad ideas when it came to strategy. There were markers in the map now, planning for the day when they could finally move on the capital.

His newfound confidence was, for the most part, faked, but at least he was starting to believe it himself. He began to start hearings in the throne room, dealing with foreign merchants, people with problems, people with ideas. It was at least a useful distraction.

The guards posted in Anders clinic had nothing to report for a while, but then came the day one of them came to him, saying, “that mage you keep around just tried to attack me! He’s gone bloody mad! I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

He was storming through the halls, knowing his decision had been justified, but also feeling like he had made a massive mistake somewhere along the line. Probably when he agreed to take Anders with him in the first place. He shoved the door open to the clinic, guards just behind him, but he held an arm out to stop them from advancing. Anders’ back was to him, but he was unmoving.

“Explain yourself,” Fenris spat, but still Anders didn’t move. Instead something dropped to the floor in front of him, a small glass vial that shattered.

“I did nothing wrong,” he said through gritted teeth.

“My guards say you attacked them.”

“Why, aren’t you on a little power trip?” Anders said with a chuckle. Fenris felt his blood boiling. “Hawke’s gone and you can’t handle yourself so you have people watching your back at every turn?”

His eyes narrowed, more angry that Anders couldn’t say it to his face. “Watch yourself, mage. Explain what happened.”

He just chuckled, the last notes sounding just slightly unhinged. “You have no real power, Fenris.”

Jaw clenching in anger, Fenris raised one hand. “Guards,” he said firmly, and he heard the sound of steel unsheathed. The two guards moved forward. “Seize him, cut his throat.” The commands rolled easily off his tongue, the two men grabbing Anders by the arms and turning him around as he struggled against them. One pulled his head back, steel at his neck. “Stop!” Fenris said, and Anders was staring at him wide-eyed, gasping. When their gazes locked together, it took him by surprise. Anders’ normally deep golden eyes were clouded over, just slightly, like a thin veil of fog were in front of them. They seemed to reflect in the light.

Fenris’s face softened from anger to intrigue. “Let him go, I changed my mind.”

Anders was released by the guards, all the while, panting in panic at what had just happened.

“I believe I do have real power, Anders.”

“You’re insane.”

“Only to teach you a lesson.” Fenris dismissed the guards, asking them quietly to leave them alone. He suspected something else was happening with the mage, the way his eyes looked. He thought he had seen it before, but not sure where. Anders still looked fearful, gaze darting around wildly before Fenris stepped closer.

“What is wrong with your eyes?”

“I should ask you the same thing!” Anders became self-conscious again, unable to make eye contact with the elf, arms pulled tightly against his body.

“With _my_ eyes? Anders…”

He was met with the glassy stare again. Anders looked at him desperately, a silence filling the room around him. “I don’t suppose it matters, does it? I’m dying.” He threw his hands up in the air like he was just accepting it himself for the first time. “Well. That’s it then.”

Fenris didn’t answer, giving the mage silence instead of judgement. He let him continue.

“I don’t suppose I’m supposed to tell anyone about this, big secret and all, but, fuck it. Fuck it!” He rubbed at his temples, squeezing his eyes shut as he began to pace. “When one becomes a Grey Warden, we take the Taint into our bodies, but we’re not immune to it. It’s just delayed for a certain amount of time. Then it catches up with us. It’s called The Calling.”

“So does it… Kill you slowly?” Fenris asked.

“No. Well, maybe. We’re meant to go into the Deep Roads once we hear it, kill as many darkspawn as we can until we’re overwhelmed. That’s how it’s always been done.” Anders closed one fist, bringing it to his forehead and closing his eyes shut. “I’ve been hearing it for months now. But I didn’t believe it until now. I know I look like I have Blight sickness. I mean, I _do._ ”

Fenris was quiet, eyes meeting the floor, frowning. He wished he had known of this sooner, or he wouldn’t have let the dying Warden suffer, considering it was clearly not doing anything for his sanity. “So what are you going to do?”

“I can’t keep lying to myself. I need to go to the Deep Roads. I knew a Warden’s life would always be cut short, but,” he winced at his own words. “Not this short.”

Fenris nodded. “I can see if there are maps to any entrances. And Anders, I’m,” he paused, catching the mage’s cloudy gaze again that sent shivers down his spine. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t get a response, just turned and left the room, walking quickly down the hallways away from Anders, away from that Blighted room. His mind was blank, unsure of just what to think.

He went down to the docks that night, asking for Isabela, only to find her nearly passed out drunk in the tavern down there. He brought her back to the palace and told her everything. Even in her drunkenness, she seemed to sober up when he told her of Anders’ situation. She agreed to take him to the Deep Roads, at least to have someone he cared about to say goodbye to.

That night, Fenris didn’t sleep at all.

—

The palace was now completely void of those he called his friends. Still taking comfort in strategizing and keeping his mind occupied, he still found himself growing lonely without any truly familiar company. Guards were people to talk to, but he was never one for making new friends. Despite all the frustration they caused him, the people he met in Kirkwall had been a family to him. And while he missed Hawke badly, he was learning to get along without her there, propelled by the fact that she would come back. She had to.

But he did not have to exist completely in self-imposed exile. Shortly after Anders and Isabela left for the Deep Roads, he had finally left the palace and walked the streets again, the people happy to finally see his face again. He went to the one house he knew of, down near the docks, knocking on the door of Raenys’ house. She was surprised to see him, but pleased to accept his invitation for lunch.

It was a sunny day outside, and they spent the afternoon sitting on the balcony with the ocean view eating grapes and drinking wine, gazing over the gorgeous view. Fenris rarely took the time to appreciate it.

“I take it your son wasn’t home,” Fenris said, remembering Silas, not seeing him when he arrived to her place.

Raenys took a sip of wine, her lips becoming stained red over the course of the afternoon. Her wavy hair trailed down her back. “No,” she sighed gently, but her mouth curled into a smile. “He’s been spending all his time by the ships. He wants to become a sailor.”

Fenris returned the smile. Her skin looked darker than when he first met her in Perivantium, having the chance to be out in the sun so often. Her freckles stood out even more on her skin. Her hands pulled at her long hair, brushing it over her shoulders.

“Fourteen, that boy. I can’t believe it, but if he wants to be a sailor, well…” She gave a shrug. “That pirate woman, Isabela? I bet she knows a lot.”

A low chuckle. “You don’t want Isabela around your child, trust me.”

Fenris poured himself another glass of wine as Raenys put her arms behind her head, stretching. “How long has Hawke been gone? Oh, sorry…”

He put a hand up when she detected his pained expression. “It is fine. But she left four months ago.”

The elf woman nodded sadly. “You’ve been doing fantastically, I think.”

Fenris shook his head. “I haven’t done anything with this city, just brought in more supplies.”

She laughed. “Please, it saved a lot of lives. I didn’t know what to expect after taking such a major city in Tevinter, but it seems, this is it.” Raenys gestured to the balcony around them, the fresh grapes and fine wine. “Sometimes I wish I had been there for that fight.”

“It was terrible,” he said gravely, and then there was stiff silence between them again. He studied the woman again, her attention shifted back to the view, perhaps trying to spot Silas down by the docks. If he wasn’t one for making friends, then she was the closest thing to just that. Her eyes always studied him so curiously, like she was anticipating something, but never guessing correctly.

“It’s too bad about Rywin,” she muttered, just making their silence more tense.

“Did you know him?”

“He practically raised Silas with me.”

Fenris’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“We met in Perivantium. Silas was born too early, but he survived, and I arrived in the city penniless with a tiny baby and he was the first person to show me kindness. He was a slave, but he gave me food he stole from the marketplace. Eventually I found a hospice to live in, but we saw each other often. He got me my first spying job for his master, listening in on another magister’s conversation for a _cake recipe_.” She snorted. “Perivantium was so _innocent_ compared to Minrathous.”

Fenris smiled warmly at her. “That’s the first I’ve really heard anything about you.”

She was curled up in her seat now, knees pulled up to her chest. “Listen, I’ve…” Raenys trailed off, eyes beginning to close. “I’ve kind of been lying to you since we met.”

He picked at some of the last grapes still on the vine. “That doesn’t surprise me. You were an assassin slash spy, were you not?”

“That I was. But I think it’s time I finally drop that now. Just for you.” She reached for the fruit, taking one grape and popping in her mouth, savouring its sweetness before swallowing heavily. “You know I wasn’t a slave when we first met. I was freed a long time ago, before Silas was born.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Someone I knew sacrificed a lot for me.” Her voice was growing quiet. “As I said, I met Rywin in Perivantium, began to spy and made my living that way. Even when I was free, I certainly posed as a spy for most of the time. Had a knack for eavesdropping, I guess.”

Fenris nodded, intrigued by her. Still she didn’t face him.

“I’ve had a lot of names, as spies do.”

“I take it Raenys isn’t your real one?”

She smiled, a self-deprecating laugh. “Sometimes I don’t even know what my real name is. Besides mum. That’s a name I know is mine.”

Fenris couldn’t help but appreciate the sentiment, and joined her at looking out over the horizon.

“I was Dalish. My clan was taken when I was nine years old, so I don’t have the vallaslin. Still know most of the old words, though.”

That was not a truth he was expecting from her. He suddenly began to study her, trying to find any evidence that he might have missed that would have tipped him off. He noticed that she was now looking at him, a quizzical smile on her face.

“I know I blend in. There’s nothing about me that screams shem-hating Dalish. I don’t know what happened to anyone else in my clan. I was sold off quickly after we were taken. And I haven’t found any of them recently. I imagine they’re all still in Minrathous.”

“You could go with the Dalish in Arlathan, if you wanted to. Merrill is the Keeper there.”

She shook her head. “I’ve been removed from my clan for far too long. I don’t think I could go back to that life. But it might be more peaceful. I’m just glad I can catch my breath now.”

Raenys seemed sad, and he tried to think of a topic change, but she wasn’t finished.

“I do know my real name, don’t worry. If you wanted to know.”

“I do.”

“It’s Lyla.”

And with that, he felt like his heart had stopped. His eyes grew wide as he stared at her, her brow creasing and almost glaring at him. His head was swimming, skin prickling, her gaze had impaled him. His eyes moved around her face rapidly, every curve and contour recognized in an instant, and then her eyes, those brown eyes boring into his soul. He sat frozen, but he watched as her face distorted, features pulled back into the same shocked expression as his.

“By the Creators,” she said, barely about a whisper.

“Lyla,” he breathed. “You’re…”

A flash of memories burning white hot in his head, blurring his immediate vision. Fragments forming bigger pictures. Seeing himself in Minrathous in his youth. Leto. Walking hand in hand with the other elf girl. Laughing and talking when they had precious time together. Comforting her after she was beaten, and vice versa. Learning elven words after dark. She spoke of wanting her freedom back, wanting to live in the wilds again with her clan. It seemed beautiful. Freedom was something he wanted.

Their first kiss when they were teenagers, still together in Danarius’s estate. Everything after that, falling in love, wanting to be free together more than anything else in the world.

He had gone pale, staring at her, her expression pulled into one of hurt, eyes becoming misty.

“You remember my name?”

His throat was dry. He could only nod.

“So you know. About Silas, then.”

She had told him she was pregnant mere weeks before the ritual. He wanted that freedom for her, his mother, his sister and his unborn child more than for himself.

“I’m so sorry, Fenris,” she whispered. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.” She stood up from her seat, ready to run, ready to leave him.

“No,” he said quickly, “please don’t go.”

Raenys - Lyla, _Lyla, Lyla_ \- stood there, her arms crossed defensively over her chest.

“Just tell me everything.” The memories coming back were hurting his head, but they weren’t enough to solidify.

She hesitated, dropping her arms to her sides as she began to pace. “Okay. You wanted to free your sister and mother and I. Those markings of yours, you competed for them.” A truth her knew well, and one that still haunted him. “When you did, you used the boon to do that. Your sister Varania hated you for it. She and your mother struggled, and so did I. When we saw you again in the marketplace at Danarius’s side, there was nothing left in you. Stare into your eyes and there was no Leto in there. There was this Fenris, covered in lyrium, his brown hair had gone white, no emotion in his face. Varania tried to talk to you, but you didn’t respond to her. You didn’t know her. It broke us. I left for Perivantium because I couldn’t bare to look at you.”

He was frozen on the spot, wanting to do something, anything. He want to reach out and touch her, maybe it would bring all of his memory back. He wanted to hold her, embrace her so maybe he could feel what he once felt for her. But all those memories did was remind him what he had once been, they did not make him feel what he once felt. She was still Raenys, still practically a stranger to him.

“Does he know?”

“Silas? Does he know who his father is? No, he doesn’t. He knows his father as a man named Leto, a man who died before he was born.”

It stung, but it was the best he could have expected. It was true Leto was dead, but to hear that after so long, a son. He had a son. One he had never known, never held, never raised because he had died and become someone else.

“It would have been better if you never knew,” Raenys continued. “We’ve both different people now. Maybe I could have spared you the pain.”

“No,” he mumbled dryly. “You didn’t know it would make me remember.”

“I don’t want anything from you, so you know. You have Hawke, and the man I loved was Leto.”

Their gazes met one last time, she with tears in her eyes, a single drop trailing down her face. He looked away again, just as she was turning away.

“I should go.”

He didn’t have anything to say to her as she left, having only the memories that flashed back in his mind to think on. He sat still in his spot for a moment, reaching for the bottle of wine on the table and pouring another glass.

—

_Dear Fenris,_

_I’m so sorry I haven’t been writing regularly. There’s been a lot of travel. A lot of planning. A lot of absolute shit that’s been happening._

_We found out why the Wardens were acting strangely. You weren’t there when we inspected it in Kirkwall when those weird cultists were after me and Carver for “the blood of the Hawke” and that crazy bullshit. Who was it? Me, Carver, Varric and Aveline. Right. But I told you what happened, nonetheless. It turns out Corypheus has managed to create a false Calling for the Wardens, meaning they’re supposed to all go to their deaths to the darkspawn in the Deep Roads. So they panicked, and now the entire order save for a few (including Carver, thank the Maker), are making deals with a magister to turn an army of demons in their favour to kill the Old Gods still underground. Venatori work. I feel for them, I do, but this is madness._

_I don’t know how far this Calling has spread, if it’s reached farther than Southern Thedas. If you could please tell Anders, if he’s hearing it, hang in there. He needs to know the truth._

_There is an upcoming battle against the Wardens at Adamant Fortress. I’ll be there, and once this is resolved, I’m coming home to you. I miss you so much, love. And I love you so much, never forget that._

_Yours,_

_Marian_

_—_

“Isabela! The Rivaini pirate captain, have you seen her?”

Fenris was staring wild-eyed at the man on the docks, a piece of paper clutched in his hand. The shipmate just sputtered, eyes bulging out of his head. “N-no, your Grace! I don’t know who that is!”

He sighed in frustration. “Isabela. She’s got large,” he gestured with his hands in front of his chest, and the man’s face lit up.

“Oh, yeah! Her. I’m sorry, your Grace, nobody’s seen the captain in nearly a month. Hey!” he shouted over his shoulder, waving his arm to another man working. “Have you seen the Captain?”

“Isabela?” he answered.

“Yeah, you know…” The shipmate put his hands up in the same gesture as Fenris had, and he found himself fighting hard not to roll his eyes.

“She was with that mage,” the other answered. “Haven’t seen her since.”

“I’m sorry, your Grace, but-“

“Thank you,” Fenris snapped, not all that appreciative, and turned on his heel. There was no use in looking for them now, he had to find a messenger who knew how to find people. He was useless at it, and would end up wasting time. He had not seen Isabela since she left with Anders for the Deep Roads. In the war room, they found maps including entrances into the underground. They were far, simply getting to them was a long journey possibly taking weeks on foot. He prayed it hadn’t been long enough for them to get there, but…

He had twenty soldiers lined up in front of him just outside the palace, all of them looking up at him with the respect reserved for a hardened army general, but he was nearly a nervous wreck. “There’s the map, the trail they took is detailed on there. By the time you reach the entrance, the Warden will have gone inside. You should find Isabela on your way, take her with you. Do not spend more time than you can afford in the Deep Roads. If he’s gone, he’s gone. I expect you back within a month.”

The search party understood, setting off for rations and supplies before making their journey, leaving Fenris alone in the palace, stomach knotting and unknotting. He stayed in the bedroom, Hawke’s letter on the desk haunting him as he read it over and over. _Please tell Anders, if he’s hearing it, hang in there._ His Calling wasn’t real, a darkspawn trick, and Fenris had sent him to his death. Never before did he hope so hard for the mage’s survival. 

_\--_

_Isabela,_

_Where is Anders? Sweet Maker, come back come back come back come back come back come back…_

_Bring him back. He’s not dying._

_—_

For so many nights he had been retiring to a bed that would remain half cold throughout the night. He was almost used to it now, but the weight in his stomach never lifted nonetheless. The bedroom had this stillness ever since Hawke left like her presence could breathe all life into the empty space. But not him. He was a cold shell, silent and lifeless without her. His nightly routine was repeated mechanically, mind free to go blank while he got ready to sleep. Only it never went blank, it just mulled over the same thoughts over and over again. Hawke, gone. Isabela, missing. Anders, dead. Raenys – Lyla – and the son he never knew, had abandoned. Minrathous, festering. How many innocents lost in all the time he spent just sitting there waiting for information, for his army to return to its full strength? How long would it take for Corypheus to die?

He lied in bed staring at the bleached stone ceiling, prepared for surviving another night without sleep. He knew he should, to regain his strength, but it was impossible with everything piling up the way it had. Head turned to the side, staring out the open window over the inky black night sky, he wished for sleep more than anything. He considered the wine; sometimes in Kirkwall after serious periods of sleeplessness, he would take to the cellar, drinking bottles until he didn’t remember ever falling asleep, just waking up after many hours with his head pounding. At least he had some rest that way.

Just as he turned away, considering the wine idea once again, he heard a bird chirping. Lifting his head to see the windowsill, a tiny songbird was perched there, a single note escaping her beak before the air around her began to glow. He bolted out of bed, all thoughts suddenly out of his mind as the shape of a woman materialized in front of him. Hawke appeared before him, hair looking wild, her blue eyes bright upon the sight of him.

“Thank the Maker,” she breathed, and she flung herself at him. She was in her armour again, gripping him as tightly as she ever had. Fenris buried his face in her neck, her scent filling the air he breathed, smelling of home. Her hands on his back, fingers tangling into his hair. He held her. He held her and never wanted to let go, pulling apart just so their lips could meet. In that kiss, all his troubles melted away, just for that moment.

After that, she painfully had to let him go, beginning to strip away the armour that made her so weary. The metal clanked to the floor, leather untied and dropped in the same pile leaving her in only a shirt and trousers. The way she looked at him, he expected her to continue removing items, but she didn’t, face growing sad.

“I missed you so much, Marian,” he said, the back of his throat closing up one the use of her first name. He held her hands, but her face did not change.

“I think we need to talk for a while,” she mumbled. They crawled into bed together, arms around each other, her ear pressed against his chest, needing to hear his heartbeat.

“We do,” he replied, his insides clenching with anxiety once again.

“I went into the Fade.”

He rubbed a hand on her back, recalling that time they spent together in that wretched place in Kirkwall.

“No, like _really_ went into the Fade. The Inquisitor tore open the Veil and we were _there_.”

He didn’t know what she was talking about, just remained silent, but she lifted her head to catch his gaze. “We left. But Warden Alistair is dead. I was ready to sacrifice myself for them all.” Her eyes were already full of tears, and Fenris just kissed the top of her head. “I couldn’t. Not with you here and with all we have to do.”

She pressed her forehead to his chest again, and he felt the horrible sensation of knowing he was right. She would have sacrificed herself, but now it didn’t matter, she was here in his arms again. “When you sent me the letter about the Calling,” he began, not wanting to say it. “Anders was already gone.”

Hawke sighed against him, fighting back tears.

“Isabela went with him. I sent a search party out to find him, but I…”

She was sobbing against him now, her figure seeming absolutely frail now when she did. “I knew it. I fucking knew it, why didn’t Carver tell me sooner. Warden secrets- bullshit!” She was truly crying now, tears soaking through his linen shirt. All he could do was hold her. “He’s dead. And Isabela’s missing. This is perfect.”

He wanted to say maybe not. The search party only went out a few days ago. There was still a chance. But with the way their luck had been going, he knew it couldn’t be true. There was nothing they could do about it.

“He looked to have Blight sickness,” Fenris offered. “There were those signs. Did the other Wardens?”

Hawke sniffled, and her now gentle sobs stopped. “No. They didn’t. They all looked the same. Alistair seemed normal, not like Larius when we first found Corypheus, and- fuck, how would I know?”

They were silent for a while, Hawke’s breathing slowing down to a normal pace. Their reunion wasn’t supposed to be like this. They were supposed to be happy, finally meeting after being apart for so long. Qarinus was prospering, a fact he was never able to remind himself of when their personal lives were crumbling around them. The family he had made in Kirkwall was broken up, now fading away into dust.

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?” Hawke asked.

He could never lie to her. From the moment they met, he could not lie. “Yes.”

“What is it?”

“More of my past was uncovered in the time you were gone.”

Hawke pulled away to be able to see his face again. “Really? What did you find out?”

He inhaled sharply, unsure if it was wise to have mentioned anything. But he could not lie. “I knew Raenys before the ritual.”

She raised her eyebrows in shock. “Small world?”

“There is more to it than that.” He felt the ends of her hair in his fingers, twirling a strand between them idly. “Her real name is Lyla. When she said that, my memories of her came back. We were involved before I received my markings. I freed her along with my mother and sister.”

Fenris watched Hawke frown in the way she always did when she wanted to comfort him, but could not find the words.

“Her son is mine. And he doesn’t know.”

His throat was dry with his admission, unsure if Hawke was going to react. All she did was hold him close once again, kissing his chest. “I’m sorry,” was all she said.

“So am I.”

It must have been forever they laid together motionless, stewing in their own thoughts. Hawke just kept her ear pressed against his chest, her radiating warmth providing him with little comfort. After what had to have been an hour, Hawke pulled away from him completely, putting space between them as he took his arms off of her. Her face was unreadable, but there was a hint of irritation.

“I don’t feel better,” she muttered. “Coming home was supposed to make me feel better.”

He nodded, wordlessly agreeing. Suddenly she moved in to kiss him firmly. “There’s no point in feeling this way, there’s nothing we can do about any of this shit right now, so let’s…”

His mouth was open against hers, her fingers raking through his hair. “Have you been as sleepless as I have?” he groaned against her, all his senses suddenly hyper aware.

“I would guess as much.” He rolled her over onto her back, their lips meeting again hungrily. Fenris was starved of her as she bit and sucked his bottom lip. It was a kiss of teeth and tongues, not the sweetness of lips. Hawke’s legs opened as she brought him right over her, holding him tightly. His blood was rushing, mind dissolving into her mouth as they gasped between kisses.

“I need this rough,” she moaned, and it surprised him, but not completely. “Do you want to, Fenris? I understand if-“

He cut her off with a kiss as his answer. He felt her crossed ankles digging into his backside, trying to draw him even closer. His arms reached around her back, lifting her up to straddle his lap instead. Fenris felt himself already stirring with arousal as her sounds of wanting were muffled against his mouth. She brought her hands up to his ears, running her fingers along their length just to make him return those sounds. Thumbs stroking the tips, he growled the way that always managed to surprise her, pulling her shirt up over her head.

The band she wore around her breasts was removed, her pale skin on fire for him as he shoved her back down onto the bed to attack her neck. She was so warm in his arms, her legs still around him like a vice, the bulge in his pants nudging against her sensitive core. His linen top was removed, markings and scars revealed which he felt her hungry eyes on as her hands worked at his waistband.

He wanted to tear off the rest of her clothes but he dared himself to take it slower, wanting to extend this distraction as long as he could before their minds inevitably went back to everything plaguing them. Hawke let out a moan as his mouth as was her breast, holding back nothing when he nibbled lightly. She tasted unwashed, sticky from her travel, but it mattered not. She was home, she was _here,_ and how he missed her.

“No, no,” she suddenly protested, his trousers around his knees just as he was going for hers. He stopped to look at her, his breath heavy, eyes desperate.

“No, let’s change,” she panted.

“How?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked.

“Take me from behind,” she said without a single drop of sarcasm or silliness. Fenris hesitated for a moment, unsure if he heard her.

“Just do it,” she half whined, unwrapping her legs from his body. He moved over her again, marvelling at the sight of the pink peaks of her breasts one last time before he he sat up, strong hands flipping her over as she got onto her hands and knees.

He gripped the clothes around her waist, pulling her trousers and smalls off in one fluid motion. She shuddered at her exposure, but parted her knees once he freed her, legs completely bare. One hand on her pale arse, another dipping into the warm wetness between her thighs. Hawke tilted her head back as his fingers moved inside her, sending tremors down her back. He was aching in his pants as he watched her back arch for him, her ass pushing against his still covered bulge.

“Fen,” she struggled to speak, but she managed a sharp laugh. “You’re such a tease!”

He grunted in frustration as he removed his fingers, finally pulling down his smalls, freeing his cock. He gripped her hips tightly as he entered her, a shared satisfied groan between the both of them.

He was only gentle for the first few moments, remembering what she said. He just focused on moving his hips, thrusting into her faster and faster. She was hot and surprisingly tight, his memory of her not so clear after so long. She was uninhibited in her noises, high-pitched squeals that escalated into short screams the harder he moved in her. It wasn’t long before he, too, felt the noises of his pleasure slipping out of his parted lips. He was bent over her again, chest pressing against her back as she rocked her hips into his thrusts. He had a hand on his tits, another between her legs and she shrieked as he touched her clit.

Fenris let out a string of curses in Tevene as he felt the familiar fizzling in the pit of his stomach, spreading out and shooting through him white-hot. Forehead pressed against her spine, he groaned one last time before he came, fingers now working desperately at Hawke’s core. He still thrusted into her, legs about to cramp from the strain, but her panting picked up volume, and in one final cry, she bucked her hips, hitting her climax. He watched her come down after seconds, hands back at her hips. The second he pulled out of her, she collapsed on the bed, breath heavy.

He laid down right beside her, catching her eye as they breathed in unison. Her eyes were still wide, but as the seconds passed by, they dulled with tiredness. His mind was hazy, eyelids growing heavy without a single thought running through his mind. And perhaps that was the end goal. He moved in to kiss her gently, their arms wrapping around each other slowly as they settled into a more comfortable position to rest. 

“I think we needed that,” Hawke mumbled tiredly, the corner of her mouth curling into a smile.

He returned it to her, his mind unable to form words properly. Staring at her through heavy eyelids, he adored her flushed face just slick with sweat. “We should get married,” he mumbled, not entirely hearing the words himself.

“Would your people really care for another mage ruling over them?”

He gave a shrug. “I don’t do much ruling.”

She considered it for a moment. “Then we should. You king and me queen? Just don’t even think about me _producing an heir_ just yet.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They kissed again, lips softly brushing together, eyes finally closing for the night. For the first time in days, Fenris felt his mind at east, drifting off into sleep easily without the thought of what might come tomorrow.

\--

_Dear Hawke,_

_I’m sorry to hear about Alistair. He was a hero to all of us in Ferelden, and a good friend to you. May the Maker rest his soul._

_But I am relieved to know you made it home safe to Qarinus. That is, if you consider it home now. I suppose you must. I do hope the time comes soon where we can visit you. Hell, I wish I could be there when you take down Minrathous. Varric’s been updating me lately on the Inquisition matters, at least what he can tell me._

_I can’t believe it’s been nearly two years since we saw each other. It feels like only yesterday I was telling you no. Is that all I ever did with you? I can’t imagine. Donnic assures me I didn’t, but I’ve just have the sneaking suspicion. Then again, with all the shit I let you get away with…_

_Anyway, I haven’t much time to actually sit down and write a letter. Can you believe that motherhood might not be the best career option for me? Oh well, it’s always different when they’re your own. At least soon I’ll be able to get back to guard work once the little one grows up a bit. Young Michael is so spirited for his age._

_Tell the rest of the kids I said hi. Yes, even Isabela._

_Yours,_

_Aveline_

—

The search party came back empty-handed. The Deep Roads entrance was found closed shut, and they spent the better part of an hour trying to pry it open. For the days the soldiers spent in there, they had found signs of recent activity. A pile of coals where a fire had been, empty bottles of wine and potions flasks discarded along the trails but eventually lead to nothing. The area had been eerily quiet, not a single darkspawn crawling out from within, but plenty of their lifeless carcasses strewn about. Once the trail went cold, they left the caves.

The party brought the evidence back to Fenris and Hawke when they returned to the city, the small collection of bottles and discarded junk. When Fenris took a single earring in hand, his heart dropped. It was the same golden disk that hung from Isabela’s ear, its intricate Rivaini patterns unmistakable. Why they had found it in the Deep Roads, nobody could know, but it only pointed to the fact that Isabela actually went in there with him.

Fenris was angry in his grief, cursing Corypheus for his false Calling, cursing Isabela for needlessly endangering her life and cursing himself for letting him go. They were dead, there was no question about it. Lost to the darkspawn, for one how it was always meant to be, and for the other, no good reason whatsoever.

To make matters worse, as soon as they found out the truth, Merrill had decided to return. She came to the palace with a bright smile on her face, bursting with excitement for all she had to tell them. Some members of her new clan were with her to find others who wanted to join them. She bounded into the throne room where Fenris and Hawke were merely talking, babbling excitedly until she saw the grim looks on their faces.

They had to recall their entire stories for her while she had so much good news for them. Hawke embraced the elf for a long time, letting her cry quietly on her shoulder.

“How could this happen?” she finally squeaked. “I don’t understand why.”

“None of us, do, Merrill,” Hawke whispered.

“It’s just us now, isn’t it?”

Fenris watched them, his heart a stone in the pit of his stomach. It seemed so long ago he and Hawke walked into that tavern on the coast to see the pirate captain there, welcoming them like they had never parted ways. It had only been a year since that day, but the space seemed to stretch on forever. She and all the others had been a part of his life for so long, longer than they hadn’t been in his memory. And to have it gone now, well, now he just didn’t know.

He would do the only thing he could do; move forward.

That night on the beach they lit an empty pyre for their fallen friends. Without bodies, it felt hollow, but they hoped the gesture was enough. Under the dark sky, the flames burned big and bright, the crackling and sparking of the wood the only sound over the waves. After a long period of silence, Hawke and Merrill stepped out into the water, wading up to their ankles in silence as Fenris just stared into the fire, feeling its pleasant heat on his face. The flames flickered high above him and he wondered just where forward would take him.


	7. Minrathous Pt. 1

Merrill huffed, practically throwing her things to the ground as the clan began to make camp for the night. The only thing she handled gently was the staff on her back which she laid down carefully beside her pack. A hunter next to her caught her eye, brow creasing in concern, giving her a half-smile.

"Everything alright, Keeper?" she asked, voice soft with weariness.

She ran her fingers through her hair which had grown long past her shoulders in the months she had left the city. It was still strange to hear that title given to her, one she still could never feel she deserved. "Oh, it's fine, Melora," she mumbled.

The hunter approached her, a sympathetic look on her face that just made Merrill feel worse. She only offered her silent support as Merrill glared holes into the ground, tapping her toes as she thought out loud. "It's been nearly six months, I'm supposed to go back to the city and tell Fenris what we've found, but we haven't found anything!"

Melora nodded along, sharing Merrill's disappointment.

"Half a year in the Arlathan forest, now that it's safe to visit, and nothing! Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I couldn't just feel the power here! Oh, I'm babbling, sorry..."

"No!" Melora protested. "No, you're not wrong, Keeper." The title, again, almost made Merrill flinch. "I can feel it, too. Even the other hunters know there's something here."

She smiled warmly, but it didn't stay as sadness washed over her again. Whatever that something was, she was beginning to fear was nothing, only memories of her people lingering in the forest. It was as it was anywhere else the Dalish traveled. There were only scraps of their ancestry left and the few people who could clung to them desperately. At least in those other parts of the continent there had been scraps to pick up and study, but the Arlathan Forest was so wild and untamed that they might have been walking right over artifacts without noticing. The thought made Merrill want to retrace every single step she had taken.

At least there was a bright side to her situation. The Dalish who had been enslaved were free now, and from all of their collective clans they formed a new one. They had not a name for themselves yet, and Merrill wondered if it were appropriate of her to use the old Sabrae name. She was the last one after all. Sometimes the thought of her old clan made her sick, the fact that they had all so quickly turned on her, had always hated her, how Keeper Merathari never wanted to help her uncover the past. She didn't want to associate what she had endured in that clan to what she had now, but at the same time, it was her fault what happened to them, and she owed them at least a chance to carry on their name.

But perhaps she was done living for them. Maybe she could just be herself, and her new clan could be the Alerion she never knew.

Tevinter was hotter than any place she had ever been, even in the forest with all the shade. The air was heavy being close to the sea, like some summer days in Kirkwall when the city went through heat waves that happened every season. She remembered being down at the Hanged Man with the stink of sweat piled on top of all the other foul odours. It was the only place to get a real cold drink. She suspected Hawke was using ice magic on Corff's kegs in return for all the drinks she didn't seem to be paying for at the time. In those heat waves, the only ones who truly enjoyed it were Isabela and Fenris, seeming perfectly content with their sweat making everything sticky. That was the worst part of the heat; no matter what, Merrill always felt unclean. But while everyone else in the bar was half-collapsed on the tables in exhaustion, the Tevinter and the Rivaini were happily chatting away about how lovely the weather was. It was one of the few times Merrill ever saw Fenris visibly content in Kirkwall. Maybe he was just irritated all the time because he was cold.

Merrill wore a sleeveless top and trailing robe made of light fabric, but it still felt like it was too hot. She couldn't imagine how she used to wear a scarf and a fur cloak in the Free Marches. Some members of the clan had started a fire, preparing to cook that night's kill. There was no way she would be sitting around a fire that night. Instead she sat alone near the edge of the camp, a book cracked open on her lap. It was one of Varric's, Hard in Hightown, one of her favourites. The libraries of the magisters had not surprisingly little on elven history, and what they did have was only on how Tevinter conquered the elves in history. She could do without the reminder.

If she was going to report back to Fenris, she would have nothing to report. Clearly magisters did not make it out into the woods often, for their journey had been a mostly peaceful one. It was that observation that kept her hopeful there may have been something to salvage in the woods. She still didn't know if she should bother returning to Fenris only to come back and continue on as before. However, she did miss her friends...

"If there's no point to going back, why waste time?" Melora asked as Merrill was finishing her stew. She looked at the hunter with curious eyes. None of the Dalish who had followed her were mages, so she did not have a First. In a way she was thankful, for she thought she could barely be a Keeper, let alone teach someone else to be one. The hunter and her had grown close, and in a way, she was something of a First, if only in terms of companionship.

"I don't know. He gets very cross very easily," she replied. "It might be wasting time, but it would keep my friends happy. Besides, they might worry."

Melora shrugged one shoulder. "Seems to me he's never treated you with much respect, just based on the stories you've told me."

Merrill put her hand to her mouth to hide her giggle. "Oh, he's just like that to everyone. Besides, it was Anders the mage who got the most of his bitterness. I still remember when Hawke lost her patience with them completely once. Threatened to shove a lot of things up and down certain places. Kept them quiet for a while."

The hunter glanced at the closed book next to Merrill, the corner of her mouth twitching in a smile, but she said nothing of it. "Still, he doesn't sound like a good friend."

She swallowed, hesitating a response. "Well... I don't know. It's complicated."

"Friendships shouldn't be complicated. Is he your friend or not?"

She looked to Melora, her eyebrows raised. "Hawke is my friend. Isabela is my friend. But Fenris is our King now, and we have a duty to him."

Melora clucked her tongue, shaking her head. "The Dalish have never bowed to a King, Keeper, but it is your choice."

Merrill frowned at her as she walked away from her back to the other hunters. She didn't appreciate the harsh words, but part of her was hoping to hear them. Maybe she could afford to be a bit late on that report. Fenris was probably up to his ears in other business to care what the Dalish were up to. She sighed, resigning to her bedroll for the night.

She was now over a month late on that report, but strangely, she wasn't too worried. The surge in her power from the forest was becoming more of a pull each and every day, like she was being guided somewhere. When she realized the feeling, she knew it had to be a sign. She left the feeling pull her along, all the while keeping her wits about her, for she had no idea what to expect. But soon enough, they had found at least the first piece of the puzzle.

The hunters came to her suddenly one mid-afternoon in a flurry, saying they had found something important. Immediately she set off with them, weaving through the thick woods to find a decrepit if once beautifully elaborate building. It looked to be perhaps a temple, but there was no way of telling, ancient carvings in the stone long worn away. They entered through the moss-heavy door on the front, greeted by the smell of dampness and mould. With torches, the move through the pitch blackness slowly, carefully, finding nothing of note until it was there right in front of them.

Unlike the rest of the crypt, the Eluvian looked immaculate in the ruin. While moss, vines and other dead or dying growth surrounded it, it stood like it had been freshly polished, glimmering in the light of their torches. Merrill felt her heart lurch into her throat, bringing tears to the backs of her eyes at the sight of it. It was not like the one she had in Kirkwall, not the one that stole Tamlen away from her, it was pure, pristine and untainted. Most importantly, she could see her reflection in it perfectly.

She didn't want to remove it from its spot, but she was hesitant in doing anything with it. Despite living with one of them for years, she still had no idea how it was supposed to work, or even what purpose it served. The magic she felt was strong near it, and she had to do something.

Merrill returned to the mirror with Melora before sunset, asking if she would be there to assist her with inspecting the mirror. They stood in the ruin before it, Merrill's fingers running over the cool glass, trying to reach out to something.

"What happens when we figure it out?" the hunter asked, fear in her voice.

Merrill didn't hear her, just held her hands against the trim, looking at her reflection, trying to concentrate. She watched her own eyes, tried to feel the rhythm of the magic pulses coming from the mirror, then looked past herself in it. Before her hands, the glass seemed to shift, glowing and radiating underneath her fingertips. Suddenly she snapped away from it, the force almost throwing her to reveal the glass had all but vanished, nothing but blue light in its place.

"Creators," Melora whispered.

"It's a doorway," Merrill whispered. Her head whipped around to look at Melora, her eyes wide and face pale with fear. She extended a hand to her, and it was taken, and she stepped into the portal.

The air was suddenly cool, not like the musty air of the ruins, or the humidity of the forest. Indeed, the air smelled fresher, matching the pale blue landscape that was now all around them. Merrill gasped, letting go of Melora's hand as they stepped into an entirely new world. The strength she had felt from her ancestral land was stronger than ever here, thrumming through her veins with every beat of her heart. The area was fairly empty, but breathing with life as she walked along the silvery pathway leading from her mirror.

"Are those other Eluvians?" Melora asked, now standing beside Merrill.

She looked over to see the hunter calmed down, just as amazed as she. Her attention turned to what she had referred to, other rows of mirrors lined up along the pathways. They began to walk along, seeing each mirror. Many were broken, dark inside, or reflecting nothing back.

"I think this is why the elven ruins are in all corners of the map," Merrill whispered. "This is how they travelled."

"Maybe," Melora mumbled.

This was what she had been so close to those years ago, and it was more than she could ever ask for. And when she saw the familiar mirror wrapped in vines with nothing inside of it, she felt a tug at her heart. If only it worked; that was her way back to Kirkwall. This was what she could have found if only she had been able to.

“I knew it,” she gasped, feeling the tears in her eyes once her shock faded into pure joy. “I knew this was important!”

Out of all the Eluvians, there was only one other that looked as well as the other. It stood near the middle of the walkways, glowing brightly in the shimmering landscape. It had to lead somewhere.

"You're not thinking about it, are you?" Melora asked.

Merrill couldn't lie as she was drawn to it, standing in front of it.

"Who knows what's on the other side. We should get back."

She turned around, the hunter's fearful expression back. Her brow creased and she looked back to the other mirror once again. "You're right. But I still want to know."

Her hand was taken once again and she bit her bottom lip.

“Please, Keeper, the clan needs you more than whatever you might risk going in there.”

Melora was right, but it didn't keep Merrill back for long. The Elvian had remained in the ruin for fear of disrupting it. But every day Merrill would steal away just to get a look at that mystical landscape even if just for a moment. The other healthy mirror always tempted her, but it was the feeling of peace she felt when she stood there, complete solitude, like she was the only one in the world. And it was a good feeling.

She had lost count just how many times she had been in the mirror, but she was inspecting her old Eluvian, wondering if it could be fixed from this "side". Not that she was about to, this discovery doing enough for her, but it was hard not to let go of it.

While she pondered this, she heard a noise behind her. Her staff was on her back, but she took to hiding behind one of the dead mirrors the second she heard a voice. Merrill couldn't hear exactly what was being said, but as she crept along out of sight, she saw them; a human woman, hair dark as night and a shirt Isabela would be proud of, and another of her kind. A Dalish man with a vallaslin covering half of his face, the sign Elgar’nan, of not a very common tattoo in her experience. They spoke in hushed voices, but it was clear from where they stood that they had come from the very Eluvian she had been tempted to enter since discovering it.

They did not speak for long, but Merrill still watched them up until they left the way they came. Once they left, their Eluvian was still once more. She followed along the path leading to it, once again enthralled by the glass. She pressed her fingers to it, the metal cold and she shut her eyes. Could she? Should she? Merrill stood contemplating for a good while before the mirror before her began to glow brightly, opening its portal for her. She didn't realize until too late that she had stepped through it.

Alone in a bare hallway, sunlight shining in from a window. The walls were stone, not another ruin at all. Merrill frowned at her surroundings, find not what she expected. To the end of the hallway she walked, the door leading out modern. There were a flurry of muffled voices beyond the door and she only just dared to touch the handle. Her head poked out after a quiet creak.

A garden stood before her, people walking by not seeming to notice her. There were people in grand dresses, elaborate masks speaking in accents she had only sometimes heard in Kirkwall. She was in Orlais. But how did the the Eluvian end up here?

Shutting the door quickly but quietly, Merrill breathed deeply. She wanted nothing to do with the Orlesians, knowing all too well what they did to her people. Heart suddenly racing, she turned back to the mirror, feeling its magic coming to life again before she stepped inside. To her relief, the place looked the same and soon her feet were carrying her back to the Eluvian she knew would take her home. There was no need to explore the other any further, she thought, and her clan ought to know about it. And it wasn't just her clan.

It was about time she made that report.

—

Fenris tapped his fingers nervously on the table, the last two letters from the Inquisition sitting in front of him. On the left, the good news, and on the right, the bad news. The letter from Montilyet describing the Inquisition’s victory against Corypheus in the Arbour Wilds gave him some comfort from the information the spymaster provided. The Inquisition had finally been able to smuggle spies into Minrathous and report on the situation. Once he read the report, he had taken to the war room with Hawke, Merrill, Isabela’s former first mate, now captain of her ship and Admiral of the fleet, and a handful of advisors each representing the various military powers at his disposal.

Perhaps the most depressing part of the report was that he had expected everything that was described. Leliana wrote that her spies had reported the island littered with red lyrium, massive spikes of it growing out the ground, out of buildings, and even out of people. The island was a violent place to be, most slaves giving up on being submissive in hopes of surviving, now desperately lashing out with all they had. So many had died at the hands of their Venatori supporting masters. What was salvageable on the island, if anything, was unknown.

The Qunari were ready to strike against the capital, and his own armies returned to Qarinus ready for battle. The war in Seheron was not over, but ever since the Inquisition had allied with Par Vollen, they were ready to offer aid in destroying the red lyrium farms in Minrathous faster than anticipated. Suddenly the invasion was appearing to be days on the horizon.

Fenris looked up to the others awaiting his word. Karasten stood across him from the table, black eyes staring at him cooly, ready to report back to the Arishok as soon as the meeting was over. The military Captain effectively replacing Rywin was to his left, two of his lieutenants present as well. They used to be soldiers before the revolt, all of them elves, surprisingly stocky for that fact. The Admiral, however, tall and slender, every feature of his sharp, even the shock of blond hair against his dark skin; Isabela always said he reminded her of someone, and Fenris never wanted to know who.

He stopped himself from thinking of Isabela just as he was about to speak. “So we’re all in agreement, then?” he asked.

Everyone around him nodded and that was that.

—

“Are you even pushing, woman?”

Isabela glared at Anders as her feet began to slide backwards in the sandy soil that covered the entrance of the cave. “I should ask you the same! Of course mages have to be so wimpy!”

Anders grunted in frustration as he backed away from the metal vault door, sweat beading on his forehead from their struggle. “I don’t think we’re getting out of here.”

“Well _I’m_ not, you’re supposed to stay.” Isabela shuffled her hands together, bending her fingers to get the feeling back into them. She sneered at Anders who just stared at the door, calculating. “Well? It was so easy to open getting in, why can’t it move the other way?”

“Because it’s meant to keep darkspawn _inside_ the cave. It’s impenetrable.” Anders cursed, crossing his arms and beginning to pace impatiently in the cave. “There’s nothing we can do! Why did you even come here in the first place?”

The pirate glared at him, golden eyes almost glowing in the dim light of the single torch on the wall. “I wasn’t expecting the door to slam on us! If this area of the Deep Roads is untouched, who knows what might be down here!”

“You don’t even need money to survive anymore, Isabela,” Anders sighed. He took out the map taken from the war room back at the palace. In the other hand, he held a small flame to look at the notes he had made. “There should be a way out through these tunnels, but that’s according to the map, and who knows how old it is. There’s an exit that will take us maybe a over week to find? It’s a tiny crack in the stone, look.”

“No time, Anders,” Isabela said, her attention focused on the tunnel ahead of them. Her daggers were out and Anders stashed the map away, feeling the darkspawn near them in his blood. His staff was out just as three genloks came out of a hidden crevice in the rock. Isabela took to them with her daggers, slashing into one of them, its shrieks ringing out as Anders burned the other two with a wall of flames. They withdrew their weapons once they lay dead.

“Well,” Isabela sighed. “I guess we’ll have to get used to _that._ ”

Anders approached her, seeing the tension in her back. “I’m sorry, Isabela. I should have known about those doors.”

She turned to face him, absolutely pitying his kicked puppy expression. “Oh, don’t make that face. Just call me stupid for coming along with you.”

He smiled weakly at her, and she noted the slight glaze across his eyes. Creepy. She tried not to pay attention to it. “Why did you come with me in here, anyway? A Warden heading his Calling is a solitary endeavour. One for reflection and private celebration, and blah blah.”

“Truly?” Isabela asked. “You didn’t get to say goodbye to Hawke or any of the others. Just Fenris thrusting a blade at your throat for acting a bit weird.”

“Well, I suppose.” Anders shrugged.

“I’m not finished. I just wanted to…” She looked away, angry she was about to let her feelings of all things catch her off guard. “I wanted to make sure you got to say goodbye to someone who cares about you.”

His expression was one mixed of surprise, warmth and a hint of amusement. “Aw, _Isabela,_ ” he cooed sarcastically. “You _care_ about me?”

She rolled her eyes, turning her back on him. “Shh, don’t tell the darkspawn that!”

Anders chuckled darkly. “Well, I suppose we should get going. Because I, too, care about you and don’t want you to die in this wretched place. Shall we, then?”

“Let’s shall,” she replied and they began to move away from the door into the caves beyond.

—

Washing up in ocean water was never an ideal bath, but it had to be better than the stink of darkspawn blood. Although Isabela had faced them before in the Deep Roads with Hawke chasing after Nathaniel Howe, it was never not overwhelming every time they came across an enemy. Thankfully they had encountered no ogres or what Anders had called “brood mothers”. She didn’t want to know what those were. They had cleared a remote pocket in the caves, a good place to set up camp for what they assumed was the night.

Isabela was rubbing at her sore earlobe which Anders had managed to heal after a genlock had grabbed hold of the earring there, tearing it out. She screamed at the pain, but once the battle was finished, he was there, sealing the ripped skin up with his healing hands. It also meant the hole in which the earring was put through had been closed up. She let the piece of jewelry go, likely contaminated with darkspawn blood. Even if it wasn’t, it was better safe than sorry.

She had removed the other one to match, sticking it into the pack she had brought, and even took out the one in her lip. The ear wasn’t so bad, but she shuddered at the thought of having that one ripped out as well. She sat by the small campfire while Anders divided out their rations of which he seemed only slightly confident they had enough of. Both of their small tents were built behind her, ready to be used for a small amount of time before the darkspawn caught up with them. At least she was in the company of a Warden, the safest way to be in the Deep Roads.

Anders returned to sit beside her on the large raised rock in their campsite, handing her a package of food. “Here,” he said, “if we eat in portions this size, we should have enough to get us to the exit and then some for your journey back.”

“What about you?” Isabela asked, hearing her stomach grumble.

“Did you forget why I’m here?”

She smirked, biting into the dried meat and chewing for quite a while before swallowing. “It’s a bit morbid, isn’t it? And this is how all Wardens die?”

Anders took a sip from a canteen of water, nodding. “The ones who make it this far, anyway. It’s not actually natural, though. When we take the Taint into our bodies, it doesn’t make us immune, just delays the Blight sickness. The Calling was created a long time ago so that we wouldn’t succumb that way. Instead, we just go to the Deep Roads, slaughter as many darkspawn as we can and die in bloody glory. In a way, all Wardens die at the hands of darkspawn, and we all have to die heroes.”

Isabela didn’t smile when he half-heartedly laughed; he was acting remarkably lighthearted for someone about to die. But even in Kirkwall when he wasn’t bogged down being serious about mages and Justice, he had his moments of surprisingly dark humour. This was another one of those moments.

“It’s not supposed to be all doom and gloom. It is, after all, supposed to be a celebration of the Warden’s life.”

“Is that why there are not one, but two full bottles of whiskey in your pack?”

He smiled at her mischievously, and this time she returned it. “I should tell you about Jeanna, the legendary dwarven Warden who allegedly lasted an entire month after entering the Deep Roads for her Calling. Drank an entire bottle each day and killed over three hundred darkspawn single-handedly. Completely drunk the entire time.”

She laughed. “I take it you’re not trying to beat her record?”

“Not really, but being drunk might help a little bit.”

Isabela stood up suddenly once taking the last bite of her rations. She moved over to her pack, taking out a large flask from deep down. She unscrewed the top, taking the first swig of liquor before sitting down and handing it to Anders.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “We’re trying to make sure you survive, might not be a good idea to get plastered.”

“Who said anything about plastered? Just takes the edge off.”

Anders shrugged, accepting the whiskey and wincing only slightly at its sting.

“Besides, I was saving it for drinking myself into a stupor once you left me for good. Why not use it to celebrate like you said?”

“You’re so good with feelings, Isabela, I’m proud of you.”

She nudged him with her elbow and they both laughed, soon falling into a brief silence. They both took their initial swig from the bottle, setting it down between them.

“So,” Isabela began, “since you’re supposed to be reminiscing about your life, why don’t you tell me a story?”

Anders started to smile, but it faded as he stared into the flames. “There aren’t many good stories, I’m afraid. Or at least, not many happy ones.”

“Well, what about before the Circle? I’m sure there were happy times then.”

He shot a sideways glance at her that pierced her to the bone. Isabela flinched as his eyebrows creased together, but he relinquished his hard gaze, sighing instead. “I guess there’s no harm in thinking about it. Seems like my childhood wasn’t even real.”

She didn’t press him further, just listened to him suck in a sharp breath and he continued.

“Alright. Well, I was born in Ferelden but my parents were from the Anderfels. I found out I was a mage just after my sixth nameday, and my parents actually kept me hidden for a number of years. We lived in a small farming town in Ferelden, like Hawke.”

He reached for the flask between them absent-mindedly and took another drink from it. Isabela noticed his fingers trembling as he set it back down. “It wasn’t easy in that time. I always wanted to be outside playing with the other children. There weren’t many of us so we were sort of forced to be friends by circumstance. But unknowingly I would always show them the magic I could wield, despite my mother always yelling at me to keep it hidden when she found out. Just made me want to do it more.”

“So you were always a defiant little shit?” Isabela asked and they both snickered.

“Obviously! But it got to the point where I couldn’t control it as well. And when I was twelve, I accidentally burned down the family farm. Suddenly there were Templars on our doorstep.”

Her face fell when his last words came out in a croak. For a second there was a light in his face, but at the mention of Templars, everything seemed to fade.

“I still remember my mother screaming as they took me away in chains. Chains! I didn’t even put up a fight. She was screaming in her native tongue words I never knew because she never taught me. A Templar and my father had to hold her back. It was the last I ever saw of either of them. And when I was there, I never spoke to anyone, never told anyone my name. So they just called me the Anders.”

“Your parents didn’t even come to visit you?” Isabela asked, somewhat shocked.

He shook his head. “Nobody ever got visitors in the Circle. Not even children younger than me. Imagine being six years old, some strange men in armour come to take you away from home forever.”

It was Isabela’s turn to take another drink, not liking where the story was going. “My mother sold me to a random stranger in a market square for a goat and a handful of coin. I suppose I don’t know what that would be like.”

“I think we both deserved better.”

“No shit. But that was what got me here now. It’s all I’ve got.”

Anders smiled sadly. “I suppose. Not sure how things would be if it were different. Maybe I’d be a farmer living in that same tiny town. Might have a family, a woman or man of my own, some cows perhaps, and of course a cat.”

Isabela chuckled. “Sounds boring.”

“Maybe, but it would be safe, and there wouldn’t be anyone saying I had no right to that life.” They looked at each other, and she felt an understanding there. Maybe that was exactly what Anders always wanted from the start; a normal life.

Once they both felt an appropriate buzz, the flask was capped and sitting at their feet once again. Tapping her toes on the ground, Isabela tried searching for a conversation topic that didn’t immediately lead to the topic of either his time in the Circle or his impending death. When she couldn’t find one, she remained quiet, staring into the flames that were now becoming coals.

In a way she was glad she was still with him. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure exactly when she was going to part ways with him. She didn’t think of it on their journey to the entrance and it just seemed natural to follow him into the cave. She thought back to when she had met him outside Kirkwall, just inside a cave close to death. Funny how things didn’t change. Isabela felt a stinging in her eyes, and against her better judgement, reached up with one hand to wipe at a closed eyelid.

“You alright?” Anders asked innocently.

She looked up at him, eyes bleary with what she was horrified to discover were tears. She wiped at them furiously, only drawing more attention to them. Without an answer, she just placed that hand at the back of her neck, elbows on her knees, looking away from him.

“Isabela?”

“It’s fine,” she stammered. “Just the… whiskey.”

He placed a hand on her back, and she wished he hadn’t. Painfully, Isabela turned her head to look at him, seeing his eyes amber in the firelight, suddenly without a trace of their cloudiness. She straightened her back, the whiskey in her system propelling her forward to bring a hand to his stubbled cheek. Their eyes locked together for only a second before they both moved in for a kiss. There was no wetness on her face like she had feared, only the scratches of Anders’ growing beard around her mouth. His lips were warm, his tongue warmer as their kiss quickly grew passionate.

She was the one to pull away, eyebrows raised in surprise to just how receptive he was. They didn’t exchange anymore words, just kissed again, leaving the fire to die down on its own, only one of their tents being used that night.

\--

Isabela didn’t know why she did it, but she did it every single night they spent in those bloody Deep Roads. Not a word about it was exchanged between them about it. When they secured a campsite, they talked about the past, drank a bit and then slept together. They didn’t even bother putting up both tents. Anders wasn’t anything like she had remembered back in the Pearl, his fumbling awkwardness endearing, and would have been disappointing if not for _that electricity thing_. He didn’t need to do that now, somehow his prowess promoting him to proficient on his own.

But again, they didn’t talk about it.

It had to have been five “nights” now they had shared together, Isabela staring up at the canvas of their shared tent, the smell of whiskey breath and sweat all around them, her head rested on his chest. She had never really _cuddled_ before, not since she was once in love, but she would never breathe a word of this to anyone, including Anders. So she gave herself permission to indulge. Besides, there weren’t very many options for places she could rest her head. Her eyes were heavy, the sound of Anders’ heartbeat soothing her to sleepiness.

It annoyed her when he suddenly lifted his head, getting up on his elbows and effectively removing her from her pillow. She back away from him, glaring as he appeared to be listening. Then her eyes widened, remembering their situation.

“Darkspawn?” she whispered, legitimately afraid considering their position.

“No,” he said, amazed. “No, I…” He was quiet for another moment, head tilting in both directions. “I can’t hear the song anymore.”

“You mean…?”

“The Calling is gone. It’s not draining me anymore, the song is silent.”

Isabela just stared in awe and confusion, but Anders seemed upset. She tried to catch his eye, perhaps being able to see the glaze in his eyes.

“This is wrong, something is very wrong.”

He started scrambling, but Isabela had a hold on him. “No, you need to rest.”

“Isabela, I-“

She brought him down, kissing him hard on the lips again, and his panic seemed to melt away. He reluctantly laid down again, and she resumed her spot on his chest. “Just sleep,” she mumbled, closing her eyes.

\--

“It’s just gone?”

Anders was pacing back and forth as Isabela was adjusting her bandana. Their camp was packed up, but Anders was restless, nervously clutching his staff. “I don’t even know if I can sense the darkspawn anymore. Everything about the Calling is just _gone!_ What if the Taint is just gone?”

“Well,” Isabela offered, raising her hands. “I don’t know what to say! But isn’t this good news? You can come to the surface with me and go home, you don’t have to die.” It seemed she was more happy about that information than he was, for the glare he gave her didn’t seem satisfied in the slightest.

“I don’t know what this could mean, though! Maybe it’s even worse. I should just continue with the plan.”

She put her hands on her hips. _Maybe I fucked it out of you,_ she felt like saying, but didn’t want to ruin their streak of simply not talking about their little arrangement.

“No,” she said. “If it’s stopped, it means its gone away. I don’t want you to die needlessly, Anders. You’re coming with me.”

He looked away with a scowl. “Fine. Since you’re so concerned for me.”

“Hey!” she protested, giving him a light punch in the arm. “I am, alright?” They didn’t exchange anymore words as their packs were slung on their backs, walking out of their alcove and continuing on the path to the surface. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

\--

“There were surprisingly few darkspawn in there,” Isabela muttered once she squeezed her way out of the crevice of stone, tasting sunlight for the first time in nearly two weeks. She had to smile, feeling the warmth on her skin once again, hearing the waves on the beach the path lead them to. Anders was right behind her, squinting at the brightness.

“Disappointed? It’s because I steered us away from them.”

She poked her tongue out at him as she stepped across the sand. Dropping her pack on the ground, she began pulling at the buckles of the boots around her thighs.

“What are you doing?”

“I need to feel the sand between my toes again. To feel the water.” Eventually she stepped out of her boots, her legs bare, and waded into the ocean. It was warm, but not more so than the air, the feeling soothing on her aching feet. Going out to her knees, she watched as tiny fish swam around her ankles in the crystal clear water. She heard splashing behind her, turning around to see Anders barefoot with his trousers rolled up above his knobby knees. His robe was shirked in the warm air, just a canvas shirt underneath.

“You are so Ferelden,” she remarked at his almost reflective pale skin.

“We just spent days underground. You’ve got a bit of a pallor going too, for a Rivaini.”

“Nonsense,” she laughed, scrunching her toes in the wet sand underneath her. She took a deep breath in, grateful to finally be free of the smell of darkspawn everywhere. It didn’t take a Grey Warden to sense _that_. “So, you coming back with me?”

Anders hesitated an answer, caught up in the weather around him. “I suppose I should. I’m still curious as to what’s gone on with the Calling.”

“Could you still sense darkspawn?”

“Yes, I could.”

“Can’t believe you wanted to stay in there.” Isabela walked a bit further, feeling the gentle waves brush her thighs. Anders followed her, hand pulling up his trousers to keep them dry. With a wicked glance, Isabela bent down to dip her hands in the water, splashing him with a big wave. He stared at her with murder in his eyes while he stood sopping wet, but returned her devious grin, trousers forgotten as he splashed her back.

Isabela squealed as the water was cool on her back, and soon they were throwing the water at each other until finally Anders tackled her, submerging them completely. Isabela gasped as she surfaced, flicking her hair back and laughing with Anders. Her knees were on the sand below, keeping her head and shoulders above the surface, watching the mage brush his wet mop out of his face. They floated for a moment, drawing closer and soon their lips were locked again, clinging to each other. When they pulled apart, Isabela’s smile was gone. She was dangerously close to talking about it.

“Well, our clothes are all wet now,” she remarked.

“I can dry them off with magic.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “Or we can pass the time in other ways.”

She smirked at the statement, but pulled away from him for a bit. “Look, I don’t want what we’ve been doing to ruin whatever friendship we had.” There, talking about it.

He looked surprised. “Oh, no! Of course not. It was just… Nice. I don’t think a lot of Wardens get that kind of celebration when they head their Calling.”

“If it’s as solitary as you say it is, then count yourself lucky.”

He smiled at her. “It doesn’t have to ruin our friendship if you don’t want it to.”

“Good.” Her arms wrapped around his neck as she kissed him again, his hands finding her waist, pressing their bodies against each other. She let the kiss linger for a moment longer when it became soft, enjoying the taste of him around the saltwater.

“I’ll go grab that soap,” he said as he pulled away, standing up in the water and darting towards the shore towards their packs. She watched him, clothes hanging heavily off his body from the water. She tilted her head back, breathing in deeply, feeling the cool water envelop her scalp. When Anders returned to her, he was already lathering the soap, running the suds through his grungy hair, handing it off to her. They bathed quickly, the ocean not ideal for cleaning oneself, but it was better than keeping the stink of darkspawn on them.

Their clothes were laid out to dry in the remaining hours of daylight, leaving Anders in only his robe and Isabela a blanket she wrapped around herself. Isabela was stoking a fire on the beach while the mage was pouring over the map in his lap.

“If I may ask, now that we’ve survived,” he asked. “I mean, I get that you don’t want to talk about it, but since I’m still alive, we probably should.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” the pirate mumbled, making sure not to look at him. Still, she didn’t protest him speaking his mind.

He just sighed defeatedly. “Look, I know you did this to make me feel better about dying, but is this going to make things awkward between us now that I’m not.”

Her eyes widened when she realized what he just said. Isabela turned her head to look at him, lips parted in disbelief. “Did you seriously just say that? I only slept with you because you were dying? After I said I cared about you, you think that was just a pity fuck?” Her heart was hammering in her chest with rage, face flaring up as she watched him scramble for an answer.

Anders stared at her in shock as well, a shocked silence lingering between them. “No, I’m not saying you don’t care! Of course you do! But that doesn’t mean you had to sleep with me.”

She stood up, wrapping the blanket tightly around her body and he flinched. “So what do you think I am?”

“Well, considering-“

“Shut up!” she snapped, turning away from him. She felt hurt, humiliated, his words stinging like a slap to the face. And what was worse was that she didn’t know why. It wasn’t unreasonable for him to assume her sleeping with someone had little meaning, she had said it herself countless times.

“Then why? I know you’ve never been one to show someone you care _by_ sleeping with them.”

Isabela laughed sharply. “Well, thanks, that’s quite the compliment.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

She faced him again, swallowing her pride. His face was washed pink and gold in the sunset, light catching his blond hair almost in a halo. “I don’t know why,” she admitted. “That first night I think it finally hit me what was happening. Just felt right, I guess.”

He nodded. “It did feel right. And, if it helps, I really do care about you, Isabela. I owe you my life so many times over. But maybe we shouldn’t do _this_ anymore.”

Isabela smiled half-heartedly. “Maybe at least until I figure out a real reason. You are quite good.”

Anders blushed and her smile turned to a snicker. “So are you.”

“Right.” Her head tilted back, eyes glimmering in the firelight. “Okay, now it’s quite awkward.”

“What happened in the Deep Roads stays in the Deep Roads. I’ll dry our clothes off a bit more, then.” He stood up, robe fluttering around him as he went to retrieve their still damp clothing.

She wanted to avoid talking about it, but there it had happened, and there they agreed to not get into it further. She was safe now. Isabela watched Anders as he held up her white tunic, hands glowing warmly with a weak fire spell, drying the moisture from the fabric. His fingers worked tentatively, so careful to not burn anything. He moved onto her smalls also lying there, fumbling with them and it made her chuckle under her breath. Not a full day ago, he was nearly tearing them off her with such intensity. The memory made her feel a pulse inside, not at all unpleasant. She just remained in her seat, watching him carefully.

They had kissed in the water just before, not knowing why. Celebrating their survival, perhaps. Isabela didn’t know what to think, but as she watched him, drifting off in her thoughts enough to look through him, she knew what she felt. She knew she would never love Anders like she had loved the one person who had her heart so many years ago. Perhaps this was safe. Perhaps her exact feelings weren’t clear, but she only felt like she wanted to kiss him again.

He was finished with their clothes, folding them into neat and separate piles. Before he had a moment to bring them to her, she approached him. Her hands were on his shoulders, and he, too, wanted to kiss her again.

“It doesn’t _have_ to stay in the Deep Roads,” she purred. “Bit of a shitty place to leave it.”

He just smiled against her lips, content to leave it at that. She would figure it out later.

—

The ink was blotting on the page as the nib of the quill stood still against the paper. Feeling the weight of the hours he had spent awake, Varric squeezed his eyes shut as he withdrew his quill, wiping off the excess ink on a stained handkerchief. He left the blank papers on his desk, deciding to call it a night. Yet another letter he needed to write to Qarinus, but unlike all the other times, he could not sit and write excitedly until his wrist hurt. The only thing on his mind was the latest letter he received from Fenris and Hawke. Isabela and Anders had disappeared, the only thing left of them was one of Isabela’s earrings in the Deep Roads. They both died when Anders headed his Calling which he didn’t even know was false. He hadn’t spoken to anyone much since the letter arrived, just sat by his desk trying to think of a reply. It had been weeks and he had barely come up with a sentence.

So often he thought he should have been there. The Inquisition was formed a year ago, and an entire year he had been battling demons and Tevinter zealots and darkspawn magisters. So many times he reminded himself that what he was doing here was all for the greater good, and in the long run, it really was helping Fenris. But there was always that awful feeling he was neglecting them by not being there.

Then again, had he torn off to Tevinter in the middle of the fight against Corypheus, he would have been abandoning his friends in the Inquisition. It felt as if their story was soon coming to a close with the recent victory in the Arbor Wilds. There was just that funny feeling in the air that they were due for a final showdown. He had the entire scene pictured in his head already, but he knew the reality would be much more dreadful.

Varric needed to clear his head. All the dark and depressing thoughts would do him no good. He needed something to take his mind off of Isabela and Anders. He soon found himself outside in the night sky, the view of the stars probably spectacular if it weren’t for that awful green light flickering overhead. Once the Breach was gone for good, he wasn’t going to miss that. It reminded him too much of the Fade, that horrible time at Adamant Fortress sending chills down his spine.

While he descended the steps, the yard in front of the castle was empty. Lights were on in the pub, the noise inside of it bleeding out into the atmosphere around him. His attention was taken elsewhere, however, to the Inquisitor perched on the wall overlooking the camps below them. He was hunched over, staring into nothing, turning over a coin in his fingers. He had been acting this way ever since leaving the Arbor Wilds, meeting the ancient elves in the temple of Mythal who told him everything he believed was a lie. So far, Varric could tell he was behaving very typically of a man who just had his world shattered. Normally he would have been in that tavern with the rest of them, just like Varric.

“Inquisitor,” Varric greeted. The Inquisitor flinched as he drew near – he always did that – but didn’t further acknowledge the dwarf’s presence. Varric instead joined him on the edge of the wall. They sat together in silence for a moment. Varric never knew himself to be particularly hard to get along with, but this elf had made it very difficult. Although he wasn’t the only one; nobody liked him back in Haven. He had very slowly begun to make friends only after arriving in Skyhold. He never said it, but Varric could tell the elf was just itching to go home, and probably thought he was going home much sooner than he really was.

Now he barely had a home. Luckily his clan was still alive, but they were in the city of Wycome, the Keeper now on the city’s council. If he were to leave, it wouldn’t be into the woods again.

“Varric,” he suddenly said, as if his reaction was delayed. He took that as a sign he was willing to talk.

The dwarf looked up to the sky, watching the green ribbons flickering and dancing across the blackness. “How are preparations for the final strike on Corypheus?”

The Inquisitor looked up at Varric, green eyes glowing slightly like elves’ eyes did in the darkness, but what made Varric start was the sight of his tattooed face. His eyes matched, but one side of his face was covered in his tattoo, the dark red stark against his pale skin. It made him look like his face was not whole at all. Varric would never get used to that. He offered a one armed shrug and looked away. “They’re going. There isn’t much else to do. We’re ready for anything.”

Varric nodded in understanding, the silence returning again. Sometimes that coldness just made Varric miss Hawke even more.

“I heard about your friends,” he said, and it took Varric by surprise. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he mumbled sadly. “Thanks.”

He was always hard to read, but seeing only the tattooed side of his face obfuscated any lines and creases, making his expression perpetually blank. “Did you want to attend their funerals?”

“I can’t make it, it’s way too far,” Varric sighed. “Besides, we’re on the verge of finally fighting Corypheus.”

The Inquisitor nodded. “I imagine you’ll be leaving once this is all over.”

“That’s the plan. Got a number of things to do in Kirkwall, but it’s at least on the way.” He chuckled deeply, but it definitely sounded forced. He tried to shift the subject. “What’s on your mind? I thought you’d be in that tavern like usual.”

He shook his head. “I’m not thinking at all about this fight. I’m only thinking about what comes after, what if there is no after?”

“Oh, don’t get wrapped up in that, we’ve done so well against all odds, what would be stopping us now? You’ve proven yourself quite unstoppable.”

The Inquisitor didn’t react to the flattery at all, just stayed staring towards the stables.

“You know, I’m quite close to some people who have also found great success against all odds.”

“You mean Fenris.” The Inquisitor looked at Varric again, brows furrowed slightly. “Seems I could learn a lot from him.”

Varric smiled warmly, eyes moving around the intricate designs on his face. “You remind me a lot of him, if that helps. You’re stoic, aloof, unfriendly, and you’ve got the brooding down pat as I’ve now seen.”

The Inquisitor rolled his eyes, but signs of a smile were starting to crack through.

“Not to mention you both have the same taste in absolutely terrifying women.”

“Fair enough,” he laughed. “Hawke’s not so terrifying.”

“You saw her at her best, that’s all I’m saying. Seeker, though, I’m still shocked.”

All traces of the elf’s smile faded when Cassandra was brought up. He looked down towards his feet, lips pursed together. “It’s looking like she’s to be the new Divine.”

Varric considered it, studying him. “And if she does…”

“We can’t be together. And it’s bloody selfish of me to hope she isn’t appointed.”

Nodding, Varric let him stew for a moment, unsure of what to tell him. Their relationship had been a strange one to witness grow. Just like with anyone, Cassandra didn’t like him at first, his hatred of the shems just radiating from him at all times. Somewhere along the line he learned to grow up a bit, accepting that he wasn’t going home anytime soon, mostly after the attack on Haven. Even when he seemed to hate all the humans he was forced to work with, he always respected Cassandra. Varric watched it when they were on the field, the elf’s bow always being the first to take out anything about the flank her. Then there was the day Lavellan came strutting towards Varric’s writing desk with a big grin on his face saying, “You’ll never guess what Cassandra’s been reading…”

They were so secretive after that, and perhaps it was best to keep it that way out of Varric’s face, but they behaved just as Fenris and Hawke did after they reconciled. Lingering glances, smiling when they thought nobody was looking, the slight brush of the hands – it was enough to make him sick. Or at least put absolutely every little detail into his book.

“Well,” Varric mumbled. “I suppose she can reject the offer if she is… offered it.”

“Would you?”

He snorted. “Maker, yes. Whether it was for Divine or Paragon, I’d want no part in it. I can tell Seeker is hesitant. She doesn’t like the idea of Leliana as Devine.”

“Perhaps Vivienne,” Lavellan mumbled. “She’d appreciate all the pomp and ceremony.”

“No matter what, that is a list of three absolutely terrifying women.”

The Inquisitor grinned widely. “Just my type, then. Great.”

They both laughed and Varric could swear he saw the elf blush on his bare side.

“But the Chantry still wants your input on the next Devine?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “I don’t care about the Chantry, but if this is something Cassandra wants, I cannot prevent her from having it. Her Maker is more important than us.”

“Huh,” Varric said. “Self-deprecating, too. You are a lot like Fenris.”

The Inquisitor was silent once again, and Varric sensed the conversation was about over. He did have to offer something else, however.

“There was something else in that letter, you know. After I sent word that we stopped Corypheus in the Arbor Wilds, the elven armies and the Qunari are ready to strike on Minrathous.”

“I wish them success.”

“An entire country, the oldest human country absolutely toppled by an elf.”

“It would be retribution,” Lavellan began, voice growing dark, “if we hadn’t been the ones to run ourselves into the ground in the first place.”

Varric shook his head. “Well, it’s still retribution for thousands of years of slavery. Look, you’re dangerously close to brooding again, let’s go get you a drink and try a hand at Wicked Grace.”

He seemed to smile at that, which was unexpected. “Alright.”

They turned around to jump off the wall, moving toward the Herald’s Rest, the air seeming lighter now. “You still owe me four sovereigns, elf.”

—

The wind was blowing sharply to the West, the only fortunate thing about today. Fenris and Hawke were just other faces in the crowds surrounding the docks. Ships were sailing out all day, the black and gold sails of the massive Tevinter dreadnoughts and repurposed cargo ships disappearing into the horizon. All the soldiers around them were filing onto the ships still at the docks, every single boat being put to use. Fenris lead the way for Hawke and Merrill through the crowd, soldiers parting for their King. He was in his armour that he had not worn for so long, but it felt so right on his skin. His lyrium markings were pulsing with light, sweat beading on his forehead.

Admiral Cato was waiting for them right at the end of the dock where the crowds weren’t so dense. The ship there manned a crew of fifty, much smaller than the other ships which were packed to the brim with soldiers, but Hawke wanted this ship specifically. Across the back of the boat in overtly feminine lettering read “The Penetrator” - Isabela’s ship. Her Raiders still stationed in Necromenian had sailed it to Qarinus only to find that she had perished. Fenris didn’t have it in him to let it return to the Raiders, exchanging a large sum of coin to keep it.

Cato ushered the three of them up the rickety beams leading to the dock where the crew was getting ready to leave.

“Your Grace,” the Admiral bowed, “are you sure about this ship? She’s a pretty one, but I’m worried she may not put up with much of an assault if the magisters decide to attack before we hit the shore.”

Hawke scoffed. “With respect, Admiral, this ship was your former Captain’s.”

“It may have been,” he said with a smile, “but I am not Isabela.”

They all took their places near the back of the ship, Cato standing at the steering wheel, ordering the sailors about. The sky was clouded over, wind blowing strongly as the ship began to drift away from the shore. Hawke was grasping Fenris’s hand, and he remembered the last time she was on a ship was when she first came to Kirkwall. Even Merrill seemed more steady at Hawke’s other side, her eyes filled with nostalgia for the ship.

Being away from the rush of the crowds finally gave him time to think. It was the day he had been painfully waiting for since Qarinus was won over, and while crossing the Nocen Sea would take a few days yet, it was right there, just in his reach. He worried heavily, as usual, that this would be the end for him. His final victory. Judging by the chaos on Minrathous the Inquisition had reported, it wasn’t out of the question that his army would be victorious. As for himself, he started all of this, and there had to be magisters out there personally wanting his head for the state of their country.

It was then that Fenris realized Hawke was squeezing his hand for support for him just as much as for her. He looked to his side seeing her, blue eyes filled with worry. Her hair was tied back practically, armour looking rough but still strong, red warpaint across her nose. He looked at her like it would be the last time he ever would, but when she let go of his hand, he let go of those thoughts. Merrill was at the edge of the ship, elbows rested on the rail, staring out over the water, watching the shore grow smaller and smaller. Her armour was more elaborate than the robes he was used to seeing her in. The leather covering her was new, just worn enough to be comfortable in while still protective. She now wore a pair of boots to shield her feet, as did Fenris, the feeling of them uncomfortable and foreign, but they couldn’t risk it. Her hair had grown out, tied back in complex braids gathered together, whipping behind her in the wind. Her brow in a slight frown and her gaze distant made her look absolutely fierce.

The sails flapped loudly above them as the wind pushed them forward, waves below crashing against the hull. Fenris stood with Hawke at the back of the ship, watching Qarinus shrink behind them. He swallowed hard, trying to take in all the details, unsure if he would see them again. From this angle, the golden buildings looked rich with colour against the grey sky. He felt as if this was a goodbye to the city he had slowly grown accustom to over the months, despite all his determination to stay alive through the coming battle. Uncertainty always plagued him this way.

The ship felt lonely with only Hawke and Merrill by his side, the other crew members passing faces he would certainly forget eventually. Though he had not been on it, everything about the ship felt like Isabela. He had not been on a ship in a very long time, but none of those times felt like this. The way the salt water sprayed around them, the smell of the ocean, wind snapping at the sails - somehow it all reminded him of the pirate. Though she had been grounded in Kirkwall for all the time he had known her, she embodied everything about the thrill of sailing. The carefree nature of the ocean, how free it was, and also how unpredictable and formidable.

Then there was Anders. Fenris was surprised at how much guilt he had felt over the mage’s death. In the days spent mourning their friends, for whatever reason, all he could think about were the early days in Kirkwall when Hawke still lived in squalor with her uncle. He and Anders didn’t take long to start a bitter rivalry, Fenris’s hatred of him was on principle, and Anders’ hatred of him, only now he realized, was a reaction to his own harsh judgement. While he didn’t expect it to go any other way, in retrospect it was looking more and more petty every day. Hawke loved him, her best friend who she would do anything for, and he remembered just how much it hurt her when he betrayed her. Her silence on the subject of Anders whenever his name was brought up in those months on the run, the slight wince at the corner of her eye was enough to let him know.

He didn’t suspect he’d ever not feel guilty over the death of Hawke’s best friend. Now he was gone, all due to Fenris’s own vendetta against him. He just sent him away when he said he was dying, no offer to try and help. Fenris knew Hawke was working with the Wardens, he could have asked her for information sooner. Did he feel good about Anders dying? He didn’t think so, but it frightened him to think that maybe deep down he did. How he threatened him without so much as a blink.

_Why, aren’t you on a little power trip?_

“Try not to worry,” Hawke said, her voice breaking him out of his thoughts. He looked at her and she smiled weakly. She could read him like a book.

“It’s not easy,” he muttered.

“There’s nothing we can do now, just fight for them. Fight Corypheus for taking them from us.”

He didn’t get a chance to respond when there was a call from up in the crow’s nest. It caught his attention when he heard his title.

“Your Grace!” cried the sailor sitting up, brass telescope in hand, the other pointing towards the shore. “Your Grace, look! Captain!”

Fenris looked up to the shore, panic rushing through him as he could barely still see people milling about on the docks. He didn’t know what he was looking for until the sailor from up above was rushing towards him, the telescope thrust out in front of him. Fenris took it from the man, peering through the eyepiece. The docks were now closer to him, wobbling as he tried to hold the telescope steady.

“It’s them!” the sailor said breathlessly.

“Who?!” Fenris demanded, but he had no time to listen for an answer when a loud crack sounded around them, the ship slamming to a halt, the force knocking every single crew member to the deck. The telescope rolled away from Fenris’s hands as his hands and knees hit the floor. Adrenaline raced through his veins as he scrambled to grab the tool again, getting to his feet. Everyone was in a flurry around him, shouting all around him as weapons were drawn. He pulled his sword from his back as he got to the edge of the ship, Hawke and Merrill with their staves out, ready for combat. Fenris looked over the edge of the boat, seeing what had stopped them, and his mouth dropped open in shock.

All around the hull of the ship, the water had frozen solid, trapping them. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing as his eyes followed the rim of ice around them and immediately the crew began to panic. Cato’s orders came in harsh barks for the crew to start chipping away, but the cause of the sudden freeze was their main concern. Fenris was at the back of the boat again, seeing the ice was not just around them, but included a trail that lead back to shore. He held the telescope to his eye again, following along the path until he saw two figures rushing along the ice towards them. He held it steady, just long enough to see a flash of a white tunic and dark robes moving towards them.

“ _Kaffas,_ ” he cursed, the breath leaving his lungs as he dropped the telescope. “Cato!” he bellowed as he spun around in his spot, catching the Admiral’s attention and holding up a hand to stop. He turned back to the ocean, Hawke and Merrill leaning over the edge of the boat desperately trying to peer along the path. He was about to say something when Hawke shrieked.

“Maker’s tits!” she cried, grabbing Merrill’s arms and hugging her before they both began to wave their arms over the edge of the boat. He watched as Isabela’s arms were thrown above her head to wave back and Fenris couldn’t help the grin splitting his face.

“Lethallan!” Merrill called, her voice hitching with a sob.

Anders had frozen the water around them, creating a solid path to walk the few hundred feet the ship had made off the shore, but it clearly wasn’t easy, Isabela’s feet sliding across the surface, holding onto Anders for support as they drew closer. Cato was beside Fenris now, laughing as he watched.

“That’s my fucking ship!” Isabela screamed from below once they were close enough.

“Shit,” the Admiral mumbled. “Guess I’m going to have to give up my position.”

Once they reached the side of the boat, ropes were thrown over, allowing them to climb up to the deck. As Isabela stepped onto the railing, the crew erupted with cheer, and she hopped down. Merrill’s and Hawke’s arms were around her at once, all three caught up in a tearful hug. Anders was right behind her, grasped by Hawke once she was able to peel herself off of the pirate. Even Fenris found himself pulled into Isabela’s embrace, being practically crushed against her. He could feel her, warm, alive against him, like the fires of her funeral pyre against his skin from what seemed like so long ago. She still even smelled of the sea.

“Don’t fucking scare me like that,” Fenris whispered in her ear and she laughed as they pulled apart, her face wet with tears.

“We thought you were dead,” Merrill wept, and Isabela stroked her hair as she held her against her.

“Oh, Kitten,” she said, trying to suppress the sob in her voice. “I’d never do that to you, not intentionally.”

Fenris looked over to Hawke and Anders, just holding each other without a word, and if he hadn’t been feeling guilty before, it was hitting him now. He watched them pull apart and he walked over to Hawke, watching as Anders looked at him, surprised.

“I,” Fenris began, but he found his throat closing up. He just looked at Anders, his eyes now unclouded, clear as they had ever been, wet with tears. “I’m sorry.”

He was surprised, and he looked away, suddenly shy. “So am I.”

Anders removed the spell that had frozen the water around them, allowing the ship to sail smoothly once again, still in the middle of the fleet. The five had taken to the quarters underneath the deck, Isabela granting Cato captain duties for now as they all sat around the table in the Captain’s quarters, the small supply of ale flowing freely. Anders and Isabela were remarkably spirited despite what they must have gone through, but there was a deep weariness about them, their eyes looking heavy despite their smiles.

Hawke had been giving Anders a thousand apologies, none of which he was taking, insisting nobody but Corypheus was at fault once she explained it to him. At first, she told the story of her time with the Inquisition, explaining mostly to Anders everything to do with what the Wardens had done, all of them now exiled from Southern Thedas. Anders’ face turned grim when she explained their plans with the demons, and he could only comment just how glad he was to be away from them, but it thinly veiled his sadness. Soon Merrill chatted away with her tales of the Arlathan forest. 

“I can only assume we’re on our way to Minrathous,” Isabela said with a sigh as she leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs.

“You would be correct,” Fenris said gravely. “It’s a wasteland according to reports from the Inquisition.”

Anders bowed his head. “We got back to the city in the morning. We went to the palace looking for you, but it was empty. With the ships leaving the docks we only assumed you were on your way.”

“We ransacked the place for potions, by the way,” Isabela chuckled. “Just to let you know. Fair’s fair considering you stole my ship.”

“I’m sure you didn’t find much,” Hawke remarked.

“So what happened to you?” Merrill asked, her eyes wide.

Isabela and Anders exchanged a knowing glance, each of them sharing a smirk and Fenris frowned.

“Long story,” Isabela began. “But we should have time.”

—

The sky had exploded. Rain torrented down on the ships as they battled for stability against the winds. A terrible storm had started almost immediately when the light from the Breach shattered above their heads, a massive force forcing everything down with a deafening boom. The ropes strained and snapped on the boats, captains and crews tying themselves down to the ships as they fought against the massive waves. The dreadnaught ships crashed through the peaks, every sailor holding their breath as they were submerged under water. Only when the ship emerged could they gasp.

Isabela was shrieking commands to her sailors, knuckles white on the ship’s steering wheel. Her ship was not a dreadnaught, but every pound of her heart reminding her she yet survived pushed her forward. She gasped for air after a wave crashed over the boat, throwing her head back and cackling madly as the seawater continued to spray around them. The sails snapped above her as wind blew them forward, bracing for another wave.

Below the decks, the soldiers huddled close together as water pooled around their ankles. Hawke and Fenris clung to each other in the bunk of their quarters, holding tight as the ship was flung violently. Without a way to see how they stood against the storm, they hoped desperately the creaking boards would hold against the crushing waves, though they could burst open any moment.

The ship slammed against the punishing waves for what seemed like an age, but like any storm, it had to end. When Isabela could focus ahead of them, seeing the sun beaming down and glittering on the rough water. She was drenched with seawater, bandana barely clinging to her dripping hair. The ship now rocked up and down on the waves, the rain falling lightly on the deck. For the first time in hours, Isabela took a deep breath, filling her lungs completely with fresh air. Her limited breathing had made her feel dizzy, and as her stiff fingers peeled away from the steering wheel they shook.

The sun was beating down on them now, the rain reducing to a drizzle. The other ships were emerging from the darkness of the storm, equally soaked, but still solid. From underneath, soldiers began to file out onto the deck. Isabela’s friends embraced her once again when she saw them walk across the deck. As she let go of the wheel, her first mate Cato took the rungs in his weary hands, allowing her to rest for a moment.

Fenris looked up across the horizon now, seeing as nobody had seemed to acknowledge what they were now facing. The island of Minrathous was now in view. Even from so far away, the black smoke rising from it was visible in the clear blue sky. Even with the sun shining, all light seemed to be absorbed, leaving the island a dark, smouldering pile. Just visible were the tiny glints of red jutting out of the tall buildings. Fenris felt his throat clamp tight. That had to be the red lyrium the Inquisition had spoken of. The same kind that drove Varric’s brother mad, the same kind the Templars had been eating. His gaze turned to the sky, clearer than he had ever seen.

The green light was gone. The Breach had been sealed. And Minrathous was right on the horizon.


	8. Minrathous Pt. 2

Chaos erupted as soon as the bows of the first ships touched the shores. The rumble of battle cries echoed as soldiers began to pour out of the dreadnoughts, ropes slung over the sides to secure the boats. The blackened ground beneath their feet crumbled as the group moved across the beach to the walls of the city. From the first of the Qunari ships, massive boulders were hurled at the walls, the bricks shattering on impact. As more ships landed, the larger the mob became, flooding the beach with a roar. Elf and Qunari marched together as the bombarded walls began to cave in. Sword, shield, bow, dagger and spear were all raised high as they advanced on the openings into the city.

The sky was burning bright red, clouds swirling in a circle and the air thick with corruption. Once the pirate ship breached the shore, the sailors leapt over the edges on ropes to tie it down. The King, his lyrium markings shining bright from under his armour, landed in the shallow water. He tasted nothing but bloodlust as he charged forward with his troops, sword raised high over his head. A dragon roared from overhead, teeth gnashing and fire on her breath.

There was a gaping hole in the wall which every soldier was pushing through, dispersing inside. The city was in decay, buildings toppling if not entirely flattened. They were immediately met with adversaries. Only demons inhabited the area of the city, not a mage in sight, attacking on their own free will. His blade carved through a horde of shades with ease, magic blasting around him from the Dalish Keeper, her staff aglow, eyes sharp and focused. A stream of fire was shot from above, obliterating the destroyed buildings as a hundred demons with them.

Fenris was leading them now, his sword like flag marching them forward. The Qunari went on their own accord, Karashok and Sten letting out guttural cries. They moved through the city as one, the never-ending stream of soldiers coming from the beach into the city. The two mages were at his side, their energies pulsing from them, forcing foes back from the army as they began to strike. Pushing further into the city, the magisters began to show their faces. Red lyrium spurted from the cracks in the ground, their corruption felt deeply in his markings, making them sting.

The enemy mages’ faces were hollow and sunken, eyes rimmed with black as they fought back against the army. Their arms bled to power their spells, no staves in sight as they howled madly along with their casting. Fenris’s blade cut through a magister’s neck with ease, blood splattering the already soaked ground. There was passion in the eyes of these magisters, not the mechanically blank-eyed stares of the possessed mages in Qarinus. He heard it around them in Tevene – they were crying out in mourning for their now dead god Corypheus.

Magisters were no match for the battering ram of Qunari assaulting them with spears and swords. But more foes were called upon. Emerging from the streets were abominations, people twisted by demons, with red crystals jutting out of their torsos like armour. Archers began to take them down, Merrill sending out an array of projectiles to fell them. A spear whizzed past Fenris’s head as it implanted itself into a monster’s chest.

Silver hair whipping behind him, Fenris bolted forward to parry with a magister wielding a staff. With a snarl, he swung his blade down to collide with the weapon, shattering the wooded rod. One more strike and the mage was down.

“Look out!” a voice cried and he was tackled to the ground just as a creature’s claws made a grab for him. Fenris looked up to see the hideous thing. It was neither an abomination nor a demon, not one he had never seen before, a hulking beast with several limbs and no eyes. Its bloody maw screamed a deafening scream, three spears planted in its marled flesh already. He thought it was a myth, stories made up by mages to scare their slaves into submission. He recognized now the bumps in the creature’s body were the combined bodies of others fused together with blood magic. Any other time he would be sick, but he was quickly on his feet, slashing at the thing’s ankles to knock it down.

He wondered how to kill it as it fell to the ground with a thud, the spears sticking out of it making it bleed heavily. His markings flaring with light, he reached into the thing’s torso well past his elbow. He tried to find the familiar shape of a heart, finding nothing but the feeling of bone and sinew as the creature shrieked in pain. He withdrew his arm, bloody and empty-handed, but the abomination struggled less. Satisfied at least with its debilitation, Fenris pressed onward, more of the sculpted creatures entering the streets now.

Overhead the dragon’s roars were becoming distant and Fenris had a fleeting thought of what Hawke might be finding further into the city. As the army advanced, more flaming corpses of magister and abomination were scattered in the streets. Soon the central city was visible just in the distance, the tower of the Argent Spire broken off halfway. Fenris felt a smug sense of pride at the sight, but there were more important things ahead of him.

It was only after he stopped hearing the roar of the dragon did Fenris see Hawke bolting towards him in the crowd. He was shocked to see her, mildly injured but still appearing strong.

“You need to get to the Senate!” she called frantically, tossing a healing potion to him. He quickly drank it down, discarding the flask as she began to move backwards. “The Archon is in there! I’ll clear the way for you!”

He had no time to respond as she tore back into the city, a shimmering glow encircling her as she transformed into a dragon once again. She cried out, launching herself into the sky with a flap of giant wings. He watched her for only a moment before falling back into the army as they marched onward.

—

Hawke soared above the smouldering city, a blast of fire raining down from her unhinged jaws. Above the city’s centre, the remnants of Minrathous’s defence were fighting each other in a panic. The magisters gone mad from red lyrium, all the similarly infected slaves either dead or now being used for blood magic. Massive golems were fighting the magisters down below, evidently their control rods lost, broken or corrupted. The only force the magisters had against the stone behemoths were their own created war beasts, and the armoured elephants swathed in disintegrating black and gold fabric. The attention turned to Hawke as she rained fire down on the square, spells hurled at her form the magisters. Most could not penetrate her dragon form’s thick hide, but a single golem managed to hurl a large piece of broken wall towards her, hitting her square in the chest.

With a roar, Hawke was forced to fall in the sky, flailing in midair trying to remain airborne. The gust of her wings was enough to send only humans falling to the ground. With one last blast of fire, she steadied herself in the air, climbing higher. Her chest ached from the impact, but still she gained altitude, twisting in the air to suddenly shoot downwards. She landed on the ground, turned to one side to slide through the stone of the street. With the terrible sound of an elephant’s trumpet, she snapped at her foes before leaping to her clawed feet.

At one edge of the city square, she could assess her enemies. The blood coursing through her body made her all the more bold as she breathed fire in one long sweep in front of her. Anything living was incinerated by the flames, but the golems were advancing on her, unaffected by the flames. With a roar, she snapped threats at them, but still they moved, beginning to pick up more ammunition from the destroyed streets. Thinking fast, she turned around, swinging her massive tail around to strike the closest golem, sending it flying into a wall, crushing it. She cried out just as the army was filing into the square, taking the golem’s attention off of her.

She saw Fenris leading them, his armour and blade soaked in blood, his hair streaming behind him. It was him and a team of Qunari soldiers taking on the first of the golems as Hawke began to strike back at the others before taking to the sky once again. The Senate was right there, the city centre cleared enough for him to get there. From the building half broken as it was, she could only guess it was empty inside. But the very top tower in the centre looked immaculate still against the dilapidated walls. There was only one reason it had survived, clearly preserved by something. Hawke could only pray Fenris heeded her words to deal with it as she flew over the rest of the city, beginning to clear up more foes for the rest of the army.

\--

The last of the golems lay at their feet as the army began to cheer for their first major victory. There was blood in his mouth, and Fenris spit on the ground to attempt to remove the taste. His breath was laboured, heart crashing against his chest as the army began to regroup. The Qunari were the first to move on, but he had the rest of his people before him. He motioned for a party of about twenty to accompany him, unable to see if his friends yet lived.

“We will be going into the Senate to clear out anything that may be in there. The rest of you will follow my lieutenants and the Qunari!” His arm was extended to the horned soldiers marching across the square and he was met with a collective shout of approval from his people. He dismissed them to follow as he turned around, facing the steps of the Senate. The soldiers he had selected followed him as they made their way to the broken doors.

\--

Merrill was nearly crushed within the crowd, but they were moving forward after the victory in the middle of the city. Anders was at her side, weakened from his use of magic. She slipped him a flask of lyrium potion. He seemed hesitant to take it, but reluctantly swallowed it down, grateful for it.

“Wait, where is Fenris going?” he asked her, eyes widening.

“He said he was going in the building.”

“What, alone?” Anders tried to see over the other soldiers, trying to catch a glimpse of the King, but failing.

“No, he had some people with him, I think.” She began to push through the bodies, Anders trailing behind her.

“That’s suicide!” the other mage called after her in disbelief.

Sure enough when she got a clear view of the building, Fenris had disappeared from the streets. Anders exchanged a glance with her, her eyes wide with fear. They had no choice but the press on.

—

The Senate was cold like a crypt, somehow swallowing the noise from outside. There were only echoes of the army reverberating through the walls. Fenris lead his small party carefully through the dead halls, only the still corpses of magisters to keep them company. There was curiously no red lyrium in the halls yet, despite what was just outside. His blade was out, arms braced to hold it to his side as he stalked through the main hall. He did not know the layout of the place, but he could only guess how to get to the top of the main tower.

Cold air was sinking from up above as they climbed the large staircase, continuing upwards in the tower. There was something that felt horribly wrong in the air, and Fenris’s breath came steadily as he prepared for the worst. The quietness of the halls was unnerving, and he could hear the footsteps of every soldier following him. Still they climbed the stairs, feeling the temperature drop the higher they went.

Out a window, Fenris could see the armies moving forward, giant waves destroying all the evil that permeated below. Giant crystals of red lyrium were visible in the distance, but from this view, many of the buildings were crushed and burnt down, not curtesy of Hawke. This was not Qarinus at all. They arrived to a city already half sacked. He wondered if there were any people there that would be worth saving. He had seen the horrible ghouls created by the magisters that fought them in the streets, and he could only guess all the slaves in the city had been bled dry for the mages’ depravity.

He could see his breath by the time they reached one of the top levels, more stairs to go. The air was very still now. Fenris signalled for the others to follow him into the hallway instead of up the stairs now. They entered a large room through double doors at the end of the hallway. Inside of it was what he could only guess was a makeshift shrine. A statue sat in the middle of a ring of candles still burning despite the building’s abandonment. The statue was a common sight in Tevinter, a likeness of the Old God Dumat. There was a splatter of dried blood before it under the candles.

Fenris turned back around, shaking his head. A shrine constructed to honour Corypheus. Now it was abandoned, the candles burning from lingering magic. They returned to the stairs, feeling the air grow colder and colder with each step.

\--

Isabela had remained on the beach with the other sailors, tirelessly helping them tie down ships, offering aid to the Qunari manning trebuchets and fighting the occasional straggler trying to escape the island. She was on one of the dreadnoughts now, Cato by her side as they aimed one of the cannons, a Qunari soldier holding up an arm ready to signal. When he waved, another soldier standing at the rear lit the wick. Isabela and Cato stepped back as it fired a deafening boom, hurling the cannonball at the city’s buildings. It continued this way for a long time before Isabela could catch a break, she and Cato resting on the beach near her ship.

“This is really it, isn’t it?” she asked through laboured breath, the stamina draught bringing her energy back slightly as she took a quick swig.

“I think so,” he answered her. His hair was tied back, strands of it sticking to his face. “I pray they’re making progress in there.”

“Me too,” she answered. “I might go in there, I’m not exactly welcome around the Qunari. I’d hate to stretch whatever tolerance they have of me.”

“Are you sure?” Cato asked. “This is the fifth attempt to take this city. Not Andraste, not a Blight, not the Qunari on their own could take this city.”

She glared at him. “Have a little faith, Cato. Or should I remind you we arrived to find it half-crumbling in a bloody hellscape. That’s kind of an advantage.” She downed the rest of the potion, tucking the empty bottle into a pouch of her belt.

He just sighed. Isabela stood up from the beach, withdrawing the daggers at her back and bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Well, I’m going in. If you’re not coming, wish me luck.”

Cato nodded. “Good luck, then. I’ll stay out here.”

She gave him a wave after looking over her shoulder, moving up the beach and towards the hole in the city’s wall.

\--

His boot collided with the door, busting it open to let a massive chill out. Frost stuck to every surface in the dark room. On of the soldiers held out a lantern, striking a lone match to light it. Fenris took the light as he lead the team into the office of the Archon. Every lavish display of wealth and power was remarkably preserved in the room, despite being covered in ice. They moved carefully into the centre of the office, the fire of the lantern illuminating yet another unexpected sight.

The Archon himself sat slumped over in the chair at his desk. He made no attempt to move as the soldiers drew their weapons. Fenris moved forward, holding his arm out for them to stay. He stepped carefully, the image of the Archon coming closer until he could see the truth. Deep gashes ran vertically along the old man’s forearms, massive amounts of blood dried on his robes or frozen in puddles on the floor. The coldness of the room was his final spell, freezing the tower to preserve his corpse. Fenris frowned. Normally if a mage wished to do so, one would use blood magic. This was different.

“What is it, Your Grace?” one of the soldiers piped up from behind him, voice quivering with either fear or cold.

Fenris grabbed the only thing of note on the Archon’s desk. It was a leather-bound journal which he flipped through from the blank pages of the back until he found the very last page. It would be the only thing to give him any clue.

_… and if their blasted knife-ear king is the one to find this, so let it be. Had none of this happened, he would have been a worthy foe. I cannot fight anymore against these Venatori now that every single slave in Minrathous is as good as dead. I would pray that this has helped those trying to stop The Breach in some small way. These cultist mongrels will be more satisfied in killing me than getting me out of office at this point. Let them bow to this impostor god Corypheus and defile the Maker. Let them consume that maddening red lyrium. I destroyed the bridge and I’ve kept them from the rest of Tevinter as best I could. But there is nothing left, nothing untainted on this blasted island._

_With the Maker as my witness, I will see them fail at some point. Perhaps not in this life. Perhaps another._

He shut the book, tossing it back on the desk and turned back to his soldiers. “The Archon killed himself,” he muttered darkly. “Let’s move out!”

They made their way back down the stairs, getting warmer, all the while Fenris was fighting the tight feeling in his stomach telling him he was too late. Not just to face the Archon face to face, but too late to fix anything about the island. He was too late to save any innocents, too late to intervene on the Venatori, too late to secure the capital. The only thing left of it was the chaos and violence of a city plunged into despair. There would only be abominations and red lyrium in the wasteland once known as the great Minrathous. He had broken into a city of gold, only to find it gone completely black.

—

Once the armies had caught sight of Fenris, he began to order the retreat. There was nothing in the city to salvage. He had abandoned his party, letting them rejoin the army, telling them to spread the word to the others. After leaving the building, he felt the natural warmth of the city hitting him in waves. His bones were heavy, mind plagued with the image of the Archon’s own slit wrists. It had not been done in a gesture of blood magic, just a man in solitude taking his own life out of hopelessness. He had always thought there were worse things than slavery, surely committing sin in the eyes of the Maker had to be one. But to see the Archon of the Imperium of all people take that over any other alternative left a sick feeling in his stomach.

Soon the armies began to move back toward the entrance the canons and trebuchets had made. Since their arrival, they had made it through maybe half of the main city, but he knew the only things that awaited them were what they had found before. The winding streets would be filled with ghastly abominations and crazed magisters. There were no slaves to be rescued, and even those that were alive would be suffering. There needed to be a way to at least give them mercy, to apologize for arriving too late, to make things right.

“Fenris!” he heard over the crowd.

He looked up to see Merrill and Anders rushing towards him, each of them looking banged up from the fight, all their concern for him.

“What happened?” the Dalish asked him frantically, her face falling when she saw his grim expression.

“The Archon is dead. His own suicide,” he said dryly. “Apparently he knew the city was beyond saving some time ago.”

The mages look shocked, but he didn’t look at them as he moved forward, following him in silence. His army and the Qunari had not taken much damage, no doubt owed to Hawke’s firepower.

“What’s this? You’re retreating as soon as I get here? Balls.” Isabela had found them in the crowd, her daggers put back in their holsters, but he barely acknowledged her. He still felt his stomach turning at the smell of blood imagining every victim in the city dead at his feet. Their flesh had been violated for the use of the magisters, as it always had been, whether for red lyrium or to be fused into one of the hulking ghouls to defend them. He could feel the bile rising up in his throat as the world around him started to disappear and he just wanted to wash his hands of all of it. The year of planning, the year of knowing nothing had all been because of the horrific events that took place.

On the beach, the Qunari ships stood still, and in a clearing of the people, the Arishok stood waiting for him. Fenris managed to snap out of his bizarre trance as he made his way to the man, feeling those black eyes bore into his soul once again. He stood tall as he approached, looking up to his face, feeling the glare.

“Shanedan, basalit-an,” he said with a hint of underlying irritation. “What is the meaning of this retreat?”

He swallowed down the sting in his throat. “The Archon is dead. He took it upon himself to die as there was nothing in Minrathous to salvage.”

The Qunari leader made a noise in the back of his throat in consideration. “That is what it seems.”

“It is more efficient if we pull out now and destroy the city from the outside.” He took a deep breath in, trying to calm his stomach.

The Arishok nodded. “The Qunari will aid you in this with our canons. But I suspect this dragon of yours is what you plan on using to ensure victory.”

Fenris agreed silently, his eyes skimming along the beach in search for Hawke. He brought his attention back to the Qunari quickly, however. “Panahedan, Arishok.”

He left the Qunari, making his way back towards where Isabela’s ship had landed. The steps he took were shaky until he found his friends all sitting on the beach by the ship, bandaging wounds, Anders working on mending the flesh of injured soldiers.

“Fenris!” Hawke exclaimed, jumping up from her spot to reach him. He couldn’t stop her from rushing to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. “What happened? What’s going on? You look a bit green, love.”

He blinked, telling the story of what he saw once again, watching the others’ faces turn grave. Hawke took his hands before he looked to her again.

“I need your help,” he mumbled, eyebrows creasing with worry.

“Of course,” she answered. “What is it?”

“I need you to torch the island completely.”

“You mean…?” Her face twisted in confusion.

“There is nothing here for anyone anymore. The Qunari have agreed to help spread fire, but I need you.”

She nodded quickly, giving him one last embrace before she turned back to the others. Fenris stayed where he was, glaring down at the ground before clearing his throat.

“Soldiers!” he barked, grabbing his subjects’ attention. “Every person must be on a ship in three hours time! Captains, set course for Qarinus.”

There was an eruption of chatter among the soldiers, many looking confused. Fenris crossed his arms, his intense gaze silencing them once again. “Leave no man or woman behind. Go!”

His urgency set the army in action and Fenris watched for only a moment. Their faces were filled with worry, with disdain and with anger. He looked away from them, the shame weighing heavily on his shoulders, and he couldn’t help but think this feeling was familiar. The churn of his stomach, the dread sitting on his soldiers. To finally gather the courage and fight one’s biggest foe, only to get there and find nothing to fight. In this case, nothing to salvage. Nothing but an empty, broken down mansion, or a city filled with dead and damned creatures. This was the best he could have done and it should have been better.

But there was no time for regrets. The only thing he could do was purge the world from the demon infestation that was the greatest city in Thedas.

—

From up high, the massive city looked so small, the only light coming from fires and the glinting of red lyrium. Across the ocean, the ships departed, speckling the waves with their sails. Along the coast, the Qunari ships began to bombard the edges of the island with fire that would soon spread.

Fenris held on tightly to the scales of Hawke’s back, a scarf tied tightly over his face to survive the black smoke perpetually steaming from the island. All he could hear was the sound of the wind whipping past his ears, and the flap of mighty wings on either side of him. His head began to rush when she dipped down in the air, flying lower to let out the first belch of flame streaming across the city centre, setting the remainder of the Argent Spire ablaze, ending at the base of the Senate. She rained fire down in staggering amounts, the buildings catching with ease. Soon more denizens of the island crawled out into the streets, their screams reaching him even over the deafening wind.

The fires grew as Hawke passed over the same areas again and again, covering them in flames. The Qunari began to deploy barrels of their gaatlok, tall towers along the city walls collapsing from the explosions. While he focused on staying on Hawke’s back as she maneuvered through the air, he managed to look over to see the destruction. He felt absolutely numb as both fire and bomb destroyed everything below them. He tried to find some semblance of sadness to see the first place he could remember living in crumbled before him, but he could not. There was nothing but corruption and death below them, like a festering growth that needed to be torn out. And yet he felt no triumph in this, no sense of accomplishment for not being able to save a single soul trapped in the pit of a city.

He didn’t know how long he had been clinging to Hawke’s back, but she began to climb in the air, stopping to hover in place as if to tell him to look. Fenris dared a glance down below, his grip strengthening as he saw the island in its entirety engulfed in flame. The dragon hovered for only a moment before she began to dip down in the air once more, letting out a cry and flying over the ocean. The city on fire would be the last that he or anyone else would ever see of the Imperial capital.

_To the Void with it…_

Hawke was flying low over the water, her claws skimming the surface of the water. Fenris pulled the scarf off of his face, sitting up straighter on the back of the dragon. As Hawke gained speed, they were flying away from Minrathous and the black clouds had cleared. The sky was painted a myriad of bright colours of the rising sun, streaked with rich pink and gold. He looked up to see the sky clear again, all signs of the Breach now gone and he took a deep breath. The smell of sea salt was filling his lungs, his markings no longer agitated from the proximity of red lyrium. It was oddly liberating, the wind blowing back his hair. He had never flown like this before. He had been on the edge of a ship, the way Isabela had flown so many times, but this…

For only a moment he let the dread and the guilt lift from his mind. For only a moment, his thoughts were clear of Minrathous, of Corypheus, of the Inquisition, of everything in Qarinus that had troubled him before. The war was over, and it was won. Soon his name would be signed on the Llomeryn Accord, ending the bloody war fought between Tevinter and the Qunari for centuries. They would have new allies. There were nothing for the Venatori cultists to worship now. There were no more slaves. For only a moment, Fenris dared himself to be proud of what he had done. But he couldn’t do it.

Hawke had all but blown past the fleet of ships sailing below. They would be the first ones to return to Qarinus by a few days by virtue of the dragon’s speed. Before she had transformed, she promised Fenris she had enough strength to carry them back home before nightfall. He would hold her to it now, watching the calm waters glimmering in the early morning sun. He could do nothing now but at least enjoy the ride.

Minrathous was gone.  There was nothing there for anyone anymore.

\--

He sucked in his breath, straightening his back for the tenth time since he stood at the steps of the palace. Below him, a crowd of people stood on either side of a long carpet, guards standing every ten feet along the ropes. She had arrived in the city hours ago, parading around in a horse-drawn carriage with her entire entourage before ending up at the palace before noon. The murmur of the crowd turned to a cheer as the carriage pulled up the end of the carpet. She was inside of it now as a sister came round with a stepping stool and opened the door.

Divine Victoria stepped from the carriage, and when she set foot on the carpet before her, every member of the crowd bowed. Her opulent robes covered her head to toe as she walked slowly down the separation. The sun shone brightly overhead, reflecting off the whitewashed stone, mirroring that of the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux. It was fitting for her. As the Divine walked towards them, she caught Fenris’s eye, giving him a warm smile.

Hawke was the only one at his side, wearing a diadem similar to his. Briefly after they returned home to Qarinus, they had married rather unofficially in the Chantry. The head of the Andrastian Chantry was here to give him Divine sanction as King of Tevinter, decided mutually through their letters. It was good to put a face to the name Leliana that had been signed at the end of so many Inquisition letters. As she drew nearer, Fenris could see just a few strands of red hair peaking out from under the headpiece.

Fenris and Hawke bowed before Victoria as she ascended the steps. Once they rose again, the Divine turned around to face the crowd once more before they went inside the palace. She was accompanied by her Left and Right Hands, two faces Fenris did not know. They were lead to the main hall, a large round table laid out as per the Divine’s request. It was an odd thing for her to ask for, but she was acquiesced appropriately.

“Most Holy,” Fenris began speaking as they approached the table, “allow me to say it is an honour for us to meet you here.”

She nodded with a smile. “Please, there is no reason for such ceremony. Come, let us begin what I came for.”

He felt flustered, and the Divine was truly an intimidating figure despite her warmth. Fenris had not forgotten her words in their letters, or anything else he had heard of her. Since being appointed in her position, the rest of Thedas had not been peaceful. Some rumoured that a figurative river of blood was running through the Grand Cathedral. Or perhaps it was literal.

“So let’s get down to business,” she began, laying her folded hands on the table. “First, let me congratulate you for conquering the Tevinter Imperium. Not just as Divine, but I was impressed as anyone else would be.”

“I thank you, Most Holy,” Fenris replied.

“Now…” She waved a hand and one of her people approached the table with a handful of papers. “It would be my honour to grant you Divine sanction as a ruler of the Tevinter Imperium. This would of course allow your bloodline to rule in your place as generations go on, if this is something you want.”

Fenris and Hawke looked at each other when the word “bloodline” was brought up. That was an entirely different conversation to have with his Queen, one not to even think about now.

“With respect, Most Holy,” he said carefully. “We do not wish to be known as the Imperium any longer.”

“Of course.” The Divine looked down at the pages given to her, flipping one over. “Just Tevinter? I believe that works. In return of you being sanctioned, are you prepared to pledge your country’s faith to the Andrastian Chantry?”

“Yes,” he answered with confidence.

“Would you prefer a coronation ceremony, or are you not so privy to such things?”

The Divine’s eyes shifted from Fenris to Hawke. Fenris swallowed, looking away from her piercing blue eyes.

“We are not really ones for ceremony, Most Holy,” Hawke admitted bashfully. She and Fenris had agreed on it before the Divine arrived. Even their wedding had been small, performed by an Andrastian convert of the former Imperial chantry. They had at least waited for Varric and Aveline to visit for a time.

One of the papers was presented to Fenris by a priest, one of two bottom lines already containing Victoria I’s signature. He was presented with a quill and ink. His fingers shook as he dipped it into the ink well, letting the excess drip off slowly before signing his name across the blank space: Fenris. It was the only name he knew, attaching no title to it. The priest accepted it, taking the quill and ink from him and presenting the contract to the Divine.

“I wish you good fortune, King Fenris,” she said. “Now, if it isn’t too bold of me to ask, Your Grace, but have we any wine? I have a feeling this discussion of further details may take a while.”

He felt a smile at his lips and he was surprised at her request yet again. “Of course, Most Holy.”

\--

“Is this what being a king is meant to feel like? It feels no different from before.”

Fenris was leaning on the railing of the balcony looking over the ocean. The summer breeze was blowing warmly across the water, allowing for the smell of salt to waft through the air.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about Minrathous anymore.”

He sighed, feeling the mention of the city weigh heavily in his chest. His head fell forward.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“It’s fine.” Fenris turned around to see Raenys sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a gold cup of water in her hand. She wore blue, dark red hair flowing down her back.

“I know why you asked for me,” she said, looking at the floor, index finger tapping idly on the rim of her cup.

“Was I that obvious in my letter? You have been instrumental in my success here. You would be a fine woman for the job.”

She was shaking her head already. “As your _spymaster_. Just like the Divine while she served the Inquisition! I can tell she intimidated you.”

He smiled at her. “As Divine Victoria, yes she did. As Leliana… She also probably would.”

She laughed heartily and Fenris then felt a twinge of pain in his chest. That laugh sounded eerily familiar, knowing now that he had likely heard it many a time when he knew her properly. He still called her by the name he knew her as, the name Lyla sounding like ash on his tongue. “I am going to have to kindly reject your offer,” she said. “The only thing I want to do now is relax after this life I’ve had and eat grapes in the sunlight. Besides, what do you need a spymaster for?”

He smirked. “Mainly for keeping an eye on former mages and magisters who have not yet returned to Tevinter. Reports from allies in other cites have said they’ve snuffed out a few underground communities of them with plans to retake the Imperium.”

Raenys snorted. “They can try. But it seems they have that under control.”

“I suppose so.” He stepped away from the railing, smoothing out his clothing. “There is another matter I wish to speak with you about.”

“Oh?”

Fenris took a seat on the sofa opposite her, remembering this exact situation they had been in many months ago, the last time he even saw her. It was no more comfortable than that time either. “It’s about your son – our son.”

Her face fell. A silence washed over them, but Fenris was determined to get through this conversation.

“With my sanction, the rule of this country will be passed on down through my bloodline. That would mean whatever children Hawke and I have. But since…”

Raenys gave him a sad look, but her eyes did not threaten tears. “Silas’s father is dead.”

Fenris nodded in understanding, unsure of what he was feeling.

“If it’s all the same to you, I will never tell him the truth. I think it would be best to avoid that pain. The boy needs his own life.”

“I am sorry I could never be there.”

“Hardly your fault.” She was smiling again, wiping at a single tear that had fallen down her face. “It was probably better this way, believe it or not. Had you been his father, Maker knows if we’d all still be a family.”

Feeling ill, he tried to return her gesture, failing.

“When you asked for us to be freed, it was the last thing I expected. I don’t know if you remembered it, but when you volunteered yourself to compete for Danarius’s experiment, you told me of the boon that was promised. You said you would use it to keep us together, so nobody could sell us off to anyone else. But when you won, it was like you changed your mind at the last second. I was absolutely shocked. And then when I saw you after the ritual, when you didn’t recognize me or your mother or your sister, I knew why you did it. We won’t ever know for sure, but I think you knew Danarius would do something to your mind. Even if you used that boon to keep us together, you wouldn’t know me at all.”

They looked at each other for a moment, letting Fenris absorb the information. He didn’t know what to expect, but it was nothing less than that. The memories of his past life were just poking through the shroud of mystery clouding his mind, and he found himself trying to push them back.

“I thank you for your offer, but I cannot take it.” Raenys placed her cup on the table, crossing her arms over her stomach. “But if it’s all right with you, I wouldn’t mind us visiting every once in a while?”

Fenris smiled genuinely, seeing her face light up as he did. “I would like that.”

\--

“Well, My Lady, that is mighty generous of you.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Oh please, Varric, while you were galavanting around Orlais, we were just begging the heavens to send you to us to take care of our financial crisis!”

The dwarf just laughed, but Fenris shook his head.

“That is not far from the truth.”

Varric took off the eyeglasses that sat perched on the bridge of his nose.. “Well, this is going to take a long time for me to even get started on. But I have to say thanks for the job. I don’t think my two years off from the merchant’s guild was going over too well back in Kirkwall. It’s best to just not face that head-on.”

The office that now belonged to Varric was massive, sitting right overtop the reserves of coin buried under the palace. The desk he sat at was made of dark wood, the trim looking gold and vaguely dwarven. Stacks and stacks of papers sat on either side of him, each one filled with financial jargon nobody else but Varric would know how to translate. The dwarf’s eyes were glimmering just looking at them, eager to get started on them.

“Although as your financial expert, I have to question your system of economy.”

“What do you have to question?” Fenris asked. He was sitting in a large armchair in front of the desk, Hawke in an identical one next to him.

“Well,” he chucked, “for starters, why don’t you have one?”

“We don’t need one,” Fenris answered. “This country has a rich growing season, it’s proven completely self-sustainable. The people who established this had nothing but everyone survived.”

Varric shook his head. “As your financial expert, I don’t know how long that’s going to last considering the rest of the continent has and uses coin. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Are you going to start off every sentence with, ‘as your financial expert,’ now?” Hawke asked through a grin.

“Probably. Feels pretty good, actually.”

Hawke laughed. “Alright, let’s go now. I think Aveline’s ready to leave.”

In the main hall of the palace, a baby’s cry could be heard accompanied by the mother’s soft coos attempting to calm him. The guard captain was standing by the packed bags, holding onto her son as she bounced him gently in her arms. She looked no more weary for it, beaming as she saw Fenris, Hawke and Varric. Donnic soon followed, returning to her side.

“Is he going to miss me?” Hawke asked, voice turning to mush at the sight of the young Michael squirming in Aveline’s arms. He seemed to quiet down slightly at the sound of her voice. Her arms were out to receive him without even realizing it.

“Alright, Hawke, you can hold the baby,” Aveline laughed, handing him over. “ _Again._ ” He was a warm weight in her arms, her face illuminating as she began to rock him back and forth. This had been her for the entire two weeks Donnic and Aveline had been there. Out of everyone’s sight, Varric nudged Fenris’s arm for the umpteenth time.

“I suppose that’s everything, then,” Donnic said. “As long as we are actually able to bring Michael home with us.”

“No, no, Michael can stay with us. He’ll be a prince here…”

“Hawke, no,” Aveline said, trying her usual sternness with the statement, but couldn’t help the chuckle escaping her. Hawke handed the bundle back to Donnic, the baby’s cries now turned to laughs. “Well, at least you can settle him down.”

She grinned as she opened her arms for a tight hug from the captain. “Thank you so much for having us here. I’m proud of you, Hawke. It’s been good seeing you.”

“You too, Aveline. Next time can’t come soon enough.”

After goodbyes were said, the family was escorted from the palace grounds to the docks where Isabela’s ship would take them home. The other three watched them leave before returning inside. Varric had retired to his quarters for the evening, leaving Hawke and Fenris alone, standing out on the back to watch the ships just beyond.

“I think these entire two weeks, you spent most of your time with Michael,” Fenris remarked.

“Huh? Oh…” Hawke playfully swatted his arm and shook her head. “This isn’t the precursor conversation to us having children is it?”

He shook his head. “I’m only saying you were absolutely enamoured with that child.”

“I took care of many small children in Lothering. I just missed it is all!”

“Mm hmm.”

“I was always like this with friends’ babies.”

“Which friends’ babies?”

“You know what?” Hawke shot him a glare betrayed by her smile. “Not yet. I’m not ready.”

He placed an arm around her shoulders, bringing her close to his side. “I doubt I am, either.”

—

And so it went on. Tevinter remained allied with the Inquisition as it continued to grow after the defeat of Corypheus, striking up trade agreements with the surrounding countries. Mages that survived in Tevinter did not linger under King Fenris’s rule, silently slipping the borders and making their way to outposts of The Bright Hand, aiding the Inquisition. Tevinter’s economy, or what it consisted of, struggled against the rest of Thedas without coin used among its citizens, and eventually caved into using currency if only to bring in resources. Classes quickly began to form as farmers and sailors became merchants, raking in riches from other trading partners, only to be struck down by Fenris’s harsh taxes to humble them.

There was never a smooth day in the years that followed his conquering of Tevinter, but each day was worth the struggle and sacrifice. His friends, for the most part, stayed at his side. Isabela, though absent for long periods of time, always managed to dock in Qarinus between plundering for a visit. Varric remained as the financial advisor, purchasing a pub on the waterfront that reminded him of home. Surprisingly, Anders stayed to study the vast libraries left behind by the magisters, Fenris trusting him enough to have him at court from time to time. His proposal for a new “Circle of Magi” was compelling; any child born a mage in the new Tevinter was to be educated rather than kidnapped in a school he would personally oversee once the need arose. Merrill stayed with her clan, visiting the city only rarely, holding onto her new Eluvian and continuing to delve deeper into the woods, trying to uncover anything the magisters didn’t destroy.

And Aveline. Aveline would not abandon her home of Kirkwall, but she still saw the King and Queen whenever she could get a break from the city. She was always so warmly received at the gates of Qarinus as Hawke personally went to bring her to the palace. She would fawn over Michael who had always grown so much since their last visit, and there were always tears at the end of their visits.

Raenys kept her secret and Silas never knew he was, by blood, heir to the throne.

Despite the constant hardships, Tevinter remained a force to be reckoned with. The armies that survived the siege of Minrathous proved formidable when serving their allies as unrest broke out over Thedas with the election of the new Divine. It seemed a new era of troubles was upon them as revolts began happening sporadically across the continent, namely in Orlais. But it was for another time.

Fenris wasn’t at all surprised at himself when he realized he had forgotten why he had made it to where he was in the first place. While he slept on the night of his holy sanction, his dreams were restless. While his mind wandered the Fade, he had a vision of an old woman, her arms outstretched for embrace. She did not feel like a demon at the time, more like a familiar face that he couldn’t quite place. He spoke to her, his tongue acting on its own, “ _Asha’bellanar_.”

Then it seemed she did not see him, and the rest of his dream was unclear. He saw someone else, faceless, speaking to her in muffled words. The next thing he knew, the old woman was in the other’s arms, turned completely black. The last thing he saw before waking up was the flash of canine eyes staring straight at him.

The traces he could remember bothered him for some time, and he wondered if he or Hawke would ever see Flemeth again, now that their bargain had been completed. Part of him could not help but wonder if it hadn’t been, like he was missing a piece of the puzzle. The thoughts still haunted him, the eyes of a wolf burning into his mind. While the details of the dream eventually faded into the fog, the only constant was that stare.

Soon the dream would no longer plague him as life went on, years rolling by as he reigned. Fenris would not hold his breath for the old woman to visit him, but her memory stuck in his mind. Had he truly succeeded, or was there more on the horizon, something even bigger? He kept it to himself, and for once, was satisfied. But he always kept the witch’s words with him, knowing he was always standing on the precipice of change. The only thing he could do was leap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks!
> 
> I just want to thank everyone who has been reading along with this story. If you sent me messages over my tumblr or commented here, your words have meant a lot to me and kept me inspired. I can't believe this got so long.
> 
> If you're reading this when I've posted, I will likely be posting a brief "epilogue" of sorts that trails off the end of this. (It was going to be at the end of this, but I think it works better separately.) So far, it's more of a drabble dump of things that happen in the future. Stay tuned for that if you'd like.
> 
> Once again, thanks to everyone who read all of this! I hope you liked it as much as I did.
> 
> fenrisrex.tumblr.com


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